


Saving Grace

by chief_johnson



Series: Little Devils [22]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/F, Family Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Mild Smut, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chief_johnson/pseuds/chief_johnson
Summary: Olivia and Amanda Rollins-Benson have never exactly done things the conventional way. Why should deciding to have a baby, at ages 53 and 41 respectively, be any different? Join the city girl and her little pretty as they embark on their next big adventure, with a lot of laughs and love along the way. Devilishverse.
Relationships: Olivia Benson/Amanda Rollins
Series: Little Devils [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1455775
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	1. Hot Cross Buns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys. Thought I'd get the new year started off right with some new Rolivia fic. Sound good? I've been working on this one since not long after I posted the last chapter(s) of _The Devil's Cut_ , which is why I've been MIA for a bit. But honestly, I've had this story in mind since around the end of _Idle Hands_. It's pretty clear what it's about, from the cover and summary, so... surprise? :) I've been dropping hints like crazy for it, since at least "Howdy Honey." Good on you if you caught any of that. It's a little over 44k words and it's mostly shameless fluff, with some smut and a pinch of angst mixed in. I think it's going to be 14 chapters altogether... funny story, when I started writing it, I had all these plans to make it 9 chapters (for 9 months) of about 1k words each. LOL. Special thanks to my beta Amy for beta'ing and for not laughing in my face when I told her that. Oh, and the story picks up pretty much right after the end of _TDC_ (and "Howdy Honey"). I'm thinking of posting a Devilishverse timeline to help people keep track. Lemme know if you're interested. Enjoy.

* * *

[ ](https://i.imgur.com/gCSX6JS)

* * *

**CHAPTER 1:** Hot Cross Buns

**. . .**

"Is this good? Are you comfortable?"

"If you call being upside down and butt-ass naked on a sheet of ice comfortable, then yep, I'm cozy as can be." Amanda folded her hands behind her head and crossed her ankles against the wall, still managing to give off hot shot vibes, even at the ridiculous angle. Her flaxen braid grinned above her shoulder, forming a comical, exuberant U-shape on the bedspread. Very Pippi Longstocking. "But I swear, if I find out this is just some ploy of yours to get me to try lesbian Kama Sutra positions, so help me . . . "

Olivia returned her wife's smirk and added an eye roll for good measure. "As if I would need to talk you into that. You're the one who flips around on this mattress like you're Mary Lou Retton at the '84 Olympics," she said dryly, then pressed her unencumbered hand to the wall, testing its warmth. "Is it really that cold, love? I could try pinning up a blanket or something?"

They had prepared extensively for this moment—Olivia especially—reading and rereading the manuals, watching YouTube video tutorials, and doing practice runs, sans all the necessary accouterments. But during none of those dressless rehearsals, as Amanda called them, had they taken wall temperature into account. There were indeed goosebumps scattered along Amanda's lean, down-covered thighs, turning them to pale scrub that was closer in texture to the dusting of pubic hair above. Well, below, with her legs propped up like that.

"Nah." She reached for Olivia's hand, the one resting on her flat, nude belly, not more than a few inches from the scar left behind by the bullet that had nearly ended them both. Her voice lowered to a sensual, purring octave as she likewise lowered the hand towards her pelvis, then farther on. "I just need my city girl to warm me up, that's all."

"Hm, I can think of a few ways to do that." Olivia gave a thoughtful tilt of her head, long locks spilling over her shoulder. They had recently been trimmed, but still fell even with her biceps, a length her hair hadn't seen since she was a teenager. It was really too heavy and got in the way of everything, including sex—and yet the dazzlement in Amanda's blue eyes, like sunlight glinting on the water, whenever Olivia flaunted the mane, shameless as a strutting peacock with its plumage on display, made the slight inconvenience worth it.

"Oh yeah? Show me whatcha got, gorgeous."

"Well, first there's this," Olivia said. Slowly she unknotted the sash of her silky robe, so fluid black it resembled oil, with pink cherry blossom designs dabbed across the slick dark canvas. She nudged apart the loose panels that fell open on either side, revealing her bare breasts, nipples already perking at the sensation of cool, slippery silk grazing past. "And these. And a little of this."

She used the stimulator attached to her middle finger to lightly tease Amanda's clit, pleased to find it just as ripe and succulent as it had been during their heated heavy petting session moments earlier. Olivia's mouth watered, simulating the moisture below, and it was all she could do not to dispense with the finger clip entirely, spin Amanda around so her ass was at the edge of the bed instead of pressed to the wall, and go down on her like there was no tomorrow.

Luckily, Olivia had a little more self restraint than that. Plus, the kit and the specimen to go with it had cost a small fortune. She wasn't going to waste their money and all the effort they had put into this undertaking—poring over online profiles and squabbling about whom they liked best; tracking Amanda's cycle and reserving this exact date and time on their calendars, no exceptions or interruptions allowed; exploring Amanda's body so clinically, the detective had commented, "Thanks, babe, but I've already got a gynecologist"—just so she could eat out her wife like a sex fiend. Even if said wife was incredibly sexy and incredibly cute with her tiny, pale ass boosted in the air by a stack of pillows, her tiny, pale breasts winking puckishly around the corners of her own unbound robe.

Keeping the hips elevated was supposed to aid sperm motility and increase chances of fertilization, as was having an orgasm after the semen had been deposited. That's how they ended up in this awkward position, Amanda on her back, legs extended at a nearly ninety-degree angle, her rosebud clit (her entire pretty-in-pink vulva, actually) in full, fragrant bloom.

According to the blonde, who had watched countless vlogs late into the evenings while Olivia slept soundly beside her, couples with the highest success rates were the ones who went the extra mile and performed these calisthenics, then finished on a happy ending. Far be it from Olivia to argue with the Internet or her equally instructive wife: "Trust me, darlin', if there's one thing the women in my family are good at, it's makin' babies. You just worry about squirting the stuff in my hoo-ha, and let me and gravity take care of the rest. Reckon you _could_ show me your tits while you're at it . . . "

Amanda Rollins-Benson, ladies and gentlemen. Poet laureate and hopeless romantic of the NYPD. The "stuff" of which she spoke was the donor sperm, delivered to their apartment the day before in a nitrogen tank that reminded Olivia of _The X-Files_ episode where Scully unstoppered an alien fetus from a tank of similar design. But this one contained only vials—they had purchased four, the recommended dosage, although more were available if the first round didn't take—and the little swimmers therein had better not be extraterrestrial in origin, Amanda declared, when Olivia made the sci-fi comparison.

"I love you, babe," the detective said, as she observed Olivia carefully removing a vial for thawing; gloved and goggled-up against the bitterly cold liquid nitrogen vapors that wafted from the tank, Olivia truly had felt like a mad scientist. "But I am not giving birth to an alien-human hybrid for you. I've seen that movie, and it doesn't end well."

Donor 0806JW was far from alien, based on his comprehensive profile. A law professor who dabbled in the arts in his spare time (his picturesque watercolors of Venetian gondolas and the Tuscan countryside were especially impressive), attended the opera whenever he got the chance ("Of course he does," Amanda groaned), loved reading the classics (he cited _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_ , Olivia's favorite Hardy novel), and ran 10Ks when he wasn't hiking various mountain peaks ("Okay, that is pretty cool," Amanda assented, peering over Olivia's shoulder at a selfie snapped atop Mount Everest), he _had_ seemed almost superhuman. Almost too good to be true.

It was the album of childhood photos that dismissed any doubt either woman might have harbored. "Dear Lord," Amanda breathed, holding a picture of Olivia at six years old, a gaping hole where her front tooth should be, side by side with the donor's first grade portrait. Same missing tooth, same indulgent and slightly impatient smile, as if the subject had more important matters to attend to than school picture day. "Y'all could be twins."

Even for Olivia, who had spent hours—probably years—studying photographs to find the slightest family resemblance in her mother's albums, the likeness was undeniable. From the ebony pageboy haircut to the coffee-colored eyes and olive skin tone, she was looking at a carbon copy of her childhood self in boy form. And really, at that age and with hair that short, there was little distinction anyway.

But the similarities continued well into the high school years, and not just in physical appearance—Óscar, whose last name was excluded for reasons of confidentiality (Olivia _might_ have googled "Óscar law professor Manhattan" and discovered his last name was Ramos), had been an academic overachiever as well. Top of his class, National Honor Society, just like Olivia.

"Wow, maybe I should step aside," Amanda had said, scarfing potato chips from the bag and breathing Ruffles fumes on Olivia, who kept noting rather excitedly all the things she had in common with the donor. "Let y'all get married and have tall, sexy, genius babies together."

Olivia had looked pointedly from Amanda to the chip bag, then grabbed a large crisp from the latter and munched it in a single mouthful. "Nah, I like my feral blonde wife, even if she is getting crumbs all over my keyboard. Besides, I think he's got a husband."

He also owned a golden retriever named Ruth Bader Ginsbark. That had been what really sealed the deal, if Olivia was being honest.

Now, Donor 0806JW, AKA Dr. Óscar Ramos, and Olivia Benson's long-lost twin brother—or rather, 0.5 milliliters of his generous donation—was safely contained inside a soft silicone bubble about the size of a golf ball. That was Olivia's contribution, the insemination tool which doubled as a dildo. And a pretty one, at that. The wand, concave at the end to ensure close distribution to the cervix, was a pearly pink shade, enlaced with ivory tubing to conduct the sample, which Olivia had so carefully suctioned into the spherical end beforehand. The best part: the tip, tubing and bubble were removable, to be worn as a harness on the hand, like a finger vibrator. This made for a far more intimate and pleasurable injection than the syringes included by the cryobank.

"Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am," had been Amanda's assessment, wagging the sterile packet of syringes from inside the kit they opened within five minutes of its arrival.

If Olivia was going to impregnate her wife of only two and a half months, it wasn't going to be with some impersonal piece of medical equipment that could be compared to basting a turkey. Her fourth child was going to be conceived and born of love, of pure and absolute desire. No question of consent or being wanted. Not for this child, not ever.

"Are you ready, love?" she asked warmly, though she could feel just how ready Amanda was. The detective kept arching her pelvis up from the pillows, hips twitching subtly side to side, urging Olivia to enter her with each longer, firmer stroke of the middle finger.

"Fuck. Yes."

Olivia had been self conscious about her hands ever since a female classmate in high school gym had commented that they were more "masculine" than most girls' hands. Well, that girl could take her dainty little mitts, which probably hadn't satisfied anyone in her entire life, and fuck the hell off. Olivia's strong, long-fingered hands were exactly right for this endeavor, and when she pushed inside Amanda, smooth and deep, the blonde rising to meet the hilt with a luxurious sigh, all thoughts of that high school mean girl disappeared.

Tonight was about Olivia and Amanda only, creating something that would live on long after they were gone. Their incomparable bond given life, to be carried on for generations to come, if their son or daughter saw fit. And it would be her choice, always.

"Say when," Olivia instructed, trying not to get too lost in Amanda's touch—or those magnetic blue eyes, indigo with lust and mounting arousal—as it drifted idly inside her robe, caressing her breasts, belly, hips, and inner thighs. They had agreed ahead of time that it was best if she stayed focused during insemination, since she was the one wielding a handful of thousand dollar sperm here.

As usual, Amanda wasn't playing by the rules.

"Manda. I'm—" Olivia snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, stifling a soft moan when the blonde's hand slid farther in, a fingertip beckoning against her clit.

"You're what, baby?" Innocent as you please.

"A little busy, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh, I no- noticed. But you're such a good multitasker, thought you mi- might wanna join me." Amanda's hiccupping breaths were coming faster now, the furrow between her brows more pronounced with each thrust of Olivia's hand. She gazed up with heavy-lidded blue eyes, her free hand trailing her breasts, tweaking the nipples as she did the same to Olivia's clit. "Makes me feel good making you feel good. Unless you don't  
wanna . . . "

Olivia growled and leaned forward to capture Amanda's mouth for a hungry kiss, the slick sparring of their tongues warming her from head to toe. It was an awkward angle—she with her legs tucked to one side in a demure pose, absurd considering the full-frontal nudity; Amanda supine before her, legs fanned in the air, occasionally bracing the wall with flat feet to drive her deeper—and it required some creative stretching, but the sensations were new and not unpleasant. Olivia doubted her ability to orgasm this way, without the fullness and vigorous contact that typically got her off, until she rocked against the heel of Amanda's palm, sending a divine quiver up her spine.

"Hey there," Amanda said slyly, when Olivia drew back to catch her breath, from the kiss and the shudder. She left off toying with her own breasts in favor of Olivia's, grazing them with the back of her hand, buffing her thumb lightly across first one then the other nipple.

"Hey yourself, little pretty." One at a time, Olivia kissed the fingertips Amanda extended to trace her lips, gasping as a pair on the opposite hand slipped inside of her. God, that woman was dexterous. And so very flexible.

 _Enjoy it while it lasts_ , Olivia thought, more with contentment than any sense of urgency. If this worked, Amanda wouldn't be nearly as coordinated or bendy in a few months. A few glorious months.

Heeding her own advice, Olivia gave herself over to the heat and pressure and passion expanding throughout her body, filling her to the brim. She was riding the edge—and Amanda's hand—so intently, she almost missed the cue.

"When!" Amanda repeated, her wandering hand patting out a rapid-fire signal on Olivia's thigh. She was fast approaching climax, her ivory skin taking on a celestial hue, almost to the point of translucence. Her hips undulated in a fluid, seductive rhythm that was hypnotic and dance-like, the rest of her seeming to rise with the movement, till she practically floated on a frothy weightless cloud. Probably just an illusion of the pillows, but angelic nonetheless.

"Oh shit." Olivia snapped back to reality and immediately cringed. She didn't want those to be the words with which she inducted her child into this world. "I love you," she sighed to her wife, as gentle as a petal departing the stem, and reached for the silicone bubble attached by the tubing woven around her wrist. "So much, Amanda Jo."

"Love you more," Amanda murmured, nodding her consent to Olivia's questioning glance. She watched from hooded lids as the bubble was squeezed empty and slowly reinflated itself in the palm of Olivia's hand, as if by magic. Every moment they shared with each other was magic.

Seconds later, head tossed back and eyes closed, Amanda tensed around Olivia's diligently massaging hands, her cries softer than usual, more sweet. She already seemed more fragile somehow, as though there were something small and vulnerable within her to be nurtured and protected. Olivia had the overwhelming urge to hold her wife close, to press an ear to Amanda's chest and hear her strong, wild heart beating. The source of all that passion and all that love.

But she was getting a little ahead of herself. Amanda's orgasm was barely over, and Olivia was already so absorbed in daydreams of perfect swollen bellies—sumptuously full breasts and hips; lush blonde hair to run her fingers through; lovely peaches and cream skin, so pale and smooth, to kiss and kiss and kiss—she looked down in surprise at Amanda's hand stroking between her legs. She'd gotten caught up in the moment and forgot to orgasm. Whoops.

"You don't wanna finish?" Amanda asked with a small huff, still reaching out for Olivia after she eased away from the touch and settled onto her knees. The detective's chagrin was so pronounced, her fingers marching determinedly up Olivia's thighs, it was impossible not to laugh.

"Sweetheart, I'm fine. You can finish me off next time." Chuckling lightly, Olivia scooped up her wife's hand and kissed the knuckles before smoothing it against Amanda's chest. Her own hand—the one wearing the insemination gear—she kept poised away from them, in case any remnants of Dr. Ramos lingered on the outside. "Promise," she added, leaning in to peck the pouty little frown below.

She found herself tugged into a deeper, lengthier kiss than anticipated, and she released a heady sigh when they eventually parted. Maybe she would let Amanda finish her off before bed, after all. But for now . . .

"Did we just make a baby?" She couldn't conceal the giddy grin that accompanied the inquiry, and to be honest, she didn't want to. This was the most excited she had been in years, possibly in her whole life; she couldn't think of a single damn reason to hide it.

Amanda cocked her head thoughtfully to one side, licked her fingertip like she was testing wind direction, and pressed it experimentally to her bare belly. "Yep," she said, with a decisive nod. "I'm callin' it: definitely knocked up. Better start picking out names— hey, where you going?"

"Sweetheart, I was just up to my elbows in your uterus with a spoonful of someone else's seminal fluid—I'm washing my hands." Olivia paused in the doorway, casting a mischievous look back at Amanda, abutting the wall like a naked blonde bookend. She tossed her wife an impish wink around the doorframe. "Don't go anywhere."

"Oh, ha ha ha. You're a real laugh riot, picking on an immobile pregnant lady. Is that any way to treat the mother of your unborn child? What are you gonna do when I'm a thousand pounds, tip me over like a cow in the pasture?"

Amanda was still ranting to an empty room when Olivia returned minutes later, patting her scrubbed and sparkling hands and fingernails on a paper towel. The tirade ended abruptly when Olivia dropped her robe and slid into bed, snuggling close and guiding Amanda's bangs off her forehead with a soap-scented fingertip.

"So," she said in her most authoritative Captain Benson voice, "let's talk names, Detective."

**. . .**


	2. Hickory Dickory Dock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N from ff.net: Yay, I'm glad y'all are excited for a Devilishverse Rolivia baby. :) This is probably the most fun I've had writing a fic for this 'verse; I've loved writing each of them, but this one was just... UNICORN RAINBOW FLUFF. That said, this chapter is one of the angstier ones. You know me, I can't write pure fluff for sustained periods of time, lol. (Well, I could, but it would be like when they put Wednesday in the happy hut in _Addams Family Values_. YouTube it if you don't know what I'm talking about.) Mild trigger warning for mentions of sexual abuse of a minor in this one.

**CHAPTER 2:** Hickory Dickory Dock

**. . .**

For a couple in a lesbian relationship, they sure did rely on a stick to determine their fate a lot lately. Thankfully this one didn't involve yoga inversions or being fertilized like her Uncle Chucky's farmland over in Snellville. But she could probably stand to do a few calming poses right now. Or a few hundred pushups. Her leg was bouncing madly.

"Shh," said Olivia, resting a hand atop Amanda's head and stroking it down the length of her hair, smoothing the strands out behind her.

Easy for the captain to say; she was the one wearing an aviation watch that not only told her the time, but whose chronometers measured latitude, longitude, and didn't fluctuate based on atmospheric changes. She could land a damn plane smack-dab in the middle of Amanda's vagina with complete accuracy, thanks to her faithful Breitling. Here's hoping her ejaculation skills were equally precise.

Amanda _felt_ pregnant, she knew that much. No amount of warnings from the OBGYN that inseminations were rarely successful on the first try would convince her otherwise. The OBGYN had never met the Rollins, née Brooks, women, who popped out offspring like donuts on a Krispy Kreme conveyor belt. Grandmama had been one of seven children and gave birth to five of her own. And who knows how many siblings Amanda might have had, if not for her mama's trauma-induced miscarriages?

But her breasts had been tender the past few days, and this morning when she woke up to her wife brandishing a box of Clearblue pregnancy tests and a full jug of Tropicana in her face ("It's pee-pee time," Olivia had declared with a ridiculously wide—and adorable—grin), she'd been able to tell exactly which creamer Olivia had stirred into her breakfast coffee.

That was another trait handed down to her by the women in her family: bloodhound nose. Probably from years of sniffing out other women's perfume on the collars of the men's shirts. Not much good, evolutionarily speaking, but it had been the first indicator she was pregnant with Jesse. And here it was again, with baby number two.

Oh Lord, they were really doing this, weren't they?

"Has it been three minutes yet?" Amanda leaned over from her seat on the toilet lid, craning her neck to see the display window on the Clearblue stick, even though it was right beside her on the counter. She held her breath, willing a plus sign to appear in the empty slot. Despite her jangling dad-blasted nerves, she wanted this baby. This baby whom she had made with Olivia, whom only she could give to Olivia. A perfect, precious thing that no one had ever offered to the captain before, though she deserved it more than anyone.

"Sweetheart, it hasn't even been thirty seconds," Olivia said gently, and captured Amanda's restless hands, which were in danger of shredding the entire toilet paper roll, right down to the cardboard tube. She held them to her waist and took a seat on the edge of the tub, drawing Amanda's attention away from the pregnancy test. "Come on, tell me some more names you like."

"Names?" Amanda asked, vaguely. She tried to sneak a peek over her shoulder at the indicator, but her chin met with a resolute index finger that turned it back to face Olivia. "What names?"

The captain rolled her eyes and gave a light, exasperated sigh, though the wry smile never quite left her lips. She'd been doing that a lot lately—smiling for no reason. During the past four weeks, in particular. "For our child, you doof. I mean, you did shout 'Jesus' a bunch of times when we talked about it last, but I'm thinking we should have a backup in case you don't give birth to the new messiah."

"Huh?"

This time Olivia's sigh was a bit more sincere, her considerable patience being tested by Amanda's obtuse responses. That snapped Amanda out of it, and she snickered as Olivia's meaning sunk in.

The last time they had discussed names was the night of insemination, and it was a short-lived conversation: after fifteen minutes with her legs up the wall, the blood rushing to her brain—and other places—she'd been simultaneously horny and slap-happy, resulting in oddball suggestions (Wally for a boy; Celia, short for ceiling, for a girl) that left Olivia giggling as Amanda kissed her senseless. On the lips and other places. Somehow "Lord God Almighty" and "Yes! Harder!" didn't seem like appropriate choices for their future son or daughter, either.

"Oh, um. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret," Amanda said, sitting forward to confide in her wife, who inclined an ear cutely. Amanda would have kissed it, were there less distance between toilet and tub. "I'm terrible at picking out names. I named Jesse after an outlaw, and her middle name? Eileen? My third-grade teacher. And Frannie Mae? First grade."

Olivia frowned. She even did that pretty. "But I like those names."

Knowing Olivia, she probably would have said that regardless of what Amanda had christened their middle daughter and their pit bull. They were good names, traditional with a hint of Southern charm, but Amanda had already decided that she wanted Olivia to choose their new baby's title. The captain had three children who had all been delivered to her fully formed, their identities already in place, her choice in the matter taken away—worse, not given at all. Even their golden retriever Gigi had belonged to someone else first, been named by someone else.

There was a power in naming things. In guiding your child's— _yours_ and no one else's—destiny by choosing what they would be called, and therefore how they would be perceived by others, forevermore. One thing Amanda's parents had gotten right was her name; growing up she'd hated it, mainly because it was so easily manipulated into a taunt ("Oh Mandy, well, you came and you gave without taking . . ."; "Are you looking for a-man-da hug and kiss?"), but with some perspective and some distance between herself and the assholes from high school, she'd come to appreciate it. A bit cutesy, a bit eighties cliché, but with the blonde hair and blue eyes, it had always worked in her favor.

If anyone deserved to shape their child's future so profoundly, it was Olivia Margaret Rollins-Benson. Whatever she picked would be something beautiful, meaningful, and straight from the heart, Amanda had no doubt. That's just who she was.

"Well, my second-grade teacher was Beulah," Amanda said, shrugging with the indifference of someone choosing pizza toppings. Anchovies? Sure, why not. "I mean, I guess that's—"

"We are not naming our little girl Beulah." Olivia released the breath she'd been holding in a whoosh. Poor thing looked like she was having an aneurysm trying not to blurt that refusal. "I love you, sweetheart, but that is child cruelty and grounds for divorce. In all the states."

Amanda couldn't contain her grin any more than the captain had contained her dismay at the prospect of Beulah. "Okay, then, bossypants. Let's hear yours. And don't say Jurisprudence or Miranda, because those are automatic vetoes."

"I am rather fond of Justice . . . "

"Olivia."

"Okay, okay." Olivia's smile, impish at the corners, turned gradually inward and reflective as she considered for a moment. It took on a shy quality the longer she thought, and she suddenly nibbled her bottom lip, as hesitant as a kid with stage fright. "I kind of like Theodore for a boy. You know, little Teddy? Maybe Theo when he's older. And . . . "

"And for a girl?" Amanda prompted lightly.

No matter what the baby's sex, Olivia would love the child with her entire heart and soul. But they both knew she secretly hoped for a girl. A sweet little angel with big, soulful brown eyes, ebony-dark hair, and features so lovely, they seemed kissed by the gods themselves.

Okay, maybe Olivia wasn't the only one who hoped for another daughter.

"I always—" Olivia gave a bashful scrunch of her shoulder, the way Matilda did whenever she became the center of attention. She looked so vulnerable and unsure of herself right then, Amanda longed to gather her up in a fierce, protective hug. "I always thought that if I had a little girl of my own, I'd like to name her Samantha. Samantha Grace. Sammie, for short. Or Sam."

"Aww, baby, that's real pretty," Amanda said, without needing to exaggerate her approval. It truly was a beautiful name, and she liked that the shortened form had a boyish ring to it. She'd always favored boy names for girls. "I love it. Where'd you come up with that one?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"Promise." Amanda folded her lips together tightly and drew an X over her heart with the tip of her index finger.

"I was, um, kind of obsessed with _Bewitched_ when I was a kid. I used to run home after school every day to watch the reruns." Olivia scrunched up both shoulders this time, in a sheepish shrug that was almost apologetic.

It sounded like normal enough kid behavior to Amanda—at ten years old, missing an episode of _Saved by the Bell_ had made her practically homicidal—but then, she'd never had Serena Benson to contend with. For Amanda, television had been an escape; for Olivia, it was one more way to let her mother down, to fail at being the perfect daughter who preferred books to the boob tube and showed more concern for the drunk who slapped her around than beloved TV moms who would never.

"Actually, looking back now, I think I just had a crush on Elizabeth Montgomery. Who didn't, right? But I didn't really care about any of the witch stuff. She was just so . . . precious. And Tabitha—you know, the little daughter?"

Amanda nodded. "I used to watch it on Nick at Nite," she said softly, reaching over to catch the lock of hair that fell across Olivia's face each time she glanced down, embarrassed by the admission. She coiled it behind Olivia's ear, trailing her fingers along the jawline below. "Cute kid. Kinda reminds me of Jess."

"Yes!" Olivia beamed at that, bobbing her head enthusiastically. The captain and Jesse had bonded so well in the past year, Amanda sometimes felt like the stepmother, instead of the one who had been Jesse Eileen's personal incubator for nine months, only to then be gutted like a deer carcass to get the little stinker out.

It was good, though—the relationship. Amanda didn't begrudge it for a single minute. Olivia's patience and fondness for Jesse, who made her laugh more than almost anyone, including Amanda, were heartwarming; and Jesse, at a whopping forty-two pounds, had become Olivia's biggest defender. Just the other day, the five-and-a-half-year-old had planted both fists on her hips and blocked Amanda's path when she chased Olivia from the kitchen, threatening to tickle her. "Stop, Mama. You're not allowed to touch Mommy if she says no."

Of course, Jesse had been just as eager to join in on the tickle torture when Amanda explained that they were playing a game and she had Mommy's full consent, despite the shrieks of laughter and Olivia's breathless chants of _no-no-no_. But Amanda loved that her eldest daughter— _their_ eldest daughter—was determined to stand up for the captain. Olivia had waited a long time for that kind of fierce love and protection. Now she had an entire troop on her side (with one more on the way?), and Jesse Eileen Rollins-Benson to lead the charge.

"She was around my age. Tabitha, that is." Olivia had gained some momentum, hands narrating the tale along with her. She tucked her hair behind both ears, no longer trying to hide the wistful, winsome look in her eye. "Samantha was such a good mom to her. So sweet, patient, and loving. And when Tabitha misbehaved, she never got into trouble, not really. Samantha didn't yell or— or anything. I was too young to understand that it was all fiction. But God, I loved her. I guess, for me, the name just became . . . synonymous with those feelings."

"It's perfect," Amanda almost whispered, not wanting to break the spell cast by that story, as tragic as it was. The saddest part was that Olivia thought of it as a happy childhood memory.

Beaming again, and encouraged by the response, Olivia went on in such an animated tone it took Amanda a moment to make sense of the words that tone conveyed: "And Grace was my mother's middle name. I think it would be a nice way to honor her. The initials would be the same, too. S-G-B. Well, Sammie's would be S-G-R-B, but—"

"No." Amanda didn't mean to state it quite so flatly, so unequivocally, but she was taken aback by the suggestion and went with her knee-jerk reaction—the one that usually got her into a whole heap of trouble. "There's no way in hell we're naming our kid after that woman. Huh-uh."

Olivia's jaw snapped shut with comical abruptness, though nobody laughed. She narrowed her eyes behind the glasses she'd worn to thoroughly read over the pregnancy test instructions, which Amanda would have skimmed and then decided to wing it. "That woman?"

"Yeah, that mean, abusive drunk of a woman. Why would you wanna put that on our kid? To honor what?" Amanda rested her elbows on her knees, ducking down to catch Olivia's gaze as it dropped to her lap, to the hands she tucked between her thighs. "Baby, she beat you. She almost killed you. She did awful things—"

"Don't." Olivia's posture went rigid and perfectly straight, and though she didn't pull away, neither did she offer a hand when Amanda reached for one. "Don't say it."

'It.' Amanda didn't need to ask what that _it_ referred to. Following their most recent trip to the OBGYN, which saw Amanda with her feet in the stirrups, legs cocked wide, vulva flapping in the wind, she had expressed her loathing for gynecological exams and having her vagina rooted through like a department store bargain bin.

Somehow the conversation had turned to first experiences with Pap smears, and Olivia let slip that her first had been imposed by Serena Benson. The woman— _that_ woman—had dragged her teenage daughter to a gynecologist, insisting she needed an exam to rule out pregnancy and chlamydia in the wake of Olivia's engagement to Daniel McNab, the man who had deflowered her a week after her sixteenth birthday.

Rape kits were still in their infancy in those days, barely even heard of outside Chicago, their place of inception, and proving statutory rape hadn't been Serena's main objective anyhow. The exam, Olivia all but admitted, had been a form of punishment. Why else would Serena lock the car doors, tug Olivia inside the doctor's office by the hand (the hair wasn't an option in such a public place), and stand guard in front of the exam room door, watching the entire humiliating process while Olivia turned her face to the wall, refusing to speak or acknowledge her mother's presence?

Amanda had taken it a step further—too far, perhaps—and blurted out the first words that came to mind then, just as she did moments ago. "Babe, do you realize what you're describing? That's— that's medical rape. By proxy, but still. She forced you to be penetrated against your will. I don't care if it was the Eighties or not, that was _your_ body and _your_ decision."

It should have come as no surprise, the revelation about Serena; this was the same woman who had discovered fifteen-year-old Olivia being sexually abused in their kitchen by her latest one-night stand and did nothing to stop it. Actually _thanked_ her traumatized, weeping child for servicing the man in her stead. God, every time Amanda thought about it, she longed to hunt down Serena in the afterlife and punch her damn lights out.

But the look on Olivia's face during that conversation, especially when Amanda uttered the word "rape," had been devastating. "Are you seriously accusing my mother of raping me?" she'd asked, the color gone from her cheeks and her voice. She had wilted like a dying rose when Amanda didn't deny that interpretation. "And you think I'm the one who sees victims where there aren't any? Jesus Christ."

The look had returned, that same searching and desperate supplication for Amanda to take back what she'd said, to absolve Serena of any wrongdoing. Amanda couldn't. It would be her childhood all over again, listening to her mama making excuses for her daddy's abuse, and playing along like a good little Mandy girl. Olivia deserved better than that, even if meant not telling her what she wanted to hear.

"I'm sorry, darlin'," Amanda said now, cupping her hands to Olivia's knees. Thankfully her touch wasn't rebuffed. It hadn't been since late last year, though she sometimes felt her wife stiffen at loud noises or an unexpected caress. Less so in recent months. Perhaps not at all, eventually. "I shouldn't have said it like that. I just— I hate that she hurt you so bad. It makes me really angry. I don't want to associate that stuff with our little girl. You wouldn't want me to put Dean or Beth Anne in the running, would you? Or Charles?"

Why had she added the last part? Why couldn't she ever control her damn tongue? She half expected Olivia to latch on to that, to snap back that, for Christ's sake, she hadn't suggested Daniel or Lewis or the names of any of her other rapists (the men, at least), and what gave Amanda the right to throw those examples in her face? It would have been better if she had gone off that way; Amanda would have felt far less guilt being yelled at than she did when Olivia took her by the hand, forcing a wan smile.

"You're right. Stupid idea. Forget I said anything." Olivia shrugged lightly, as if the matter were already forgotten.

"It's not stupid," Amanda said, squeezing Olivia's wrist, just above her Breitling watch. That reminder of her mother, which Amanda had helped preserve by having it repaired last Christmas. _Fuck_. "At all. Maybe . . . maybe we could do Samantha Elizabeth instead? That way she'd have both Sams' names, or . . . Oh, or Samantha Margaret? Then she'd be named after you. We'd be honoring you, and I'm all for that."

"Yeah." Olivia tucked her lips together in another semblance of a smile that wasn't, placating Amanda with a small nod and an even smaller pat on the hand. Her voice was small too, when she murmured, "It's been three minutes, love."

"Huh?"

Olivia glanced from her watch to the counter and the pregnancy test Amanda had forgotten completely while arguing hypothetical names for a hypothetical child. Goddamn Serena (Grace, yeah right) Benson. Twenty years in the grave and she was still finding ways to hurt her daughter—and using Amanda to do it. She looked longingly at Olivia, wanting to apologize again, but the captain had that expression: the one she wore when she was _fine_ and ready to move on. It was best not to harp on a subject when she made that face; Amanda often ended up just making it worse with her big damn mouth.

"Oh. Right." Stifling a sigh, she reached back for the test stick and brought it into view, her thumb over the indicator window. She took a deep breath and moved her finger aside, revealing the results for her eyes only, the reverse side of the stick facing Olivia.

"Well?" the captain asked, an anxious note in her higher than usual tone.

Amanda slumped her shoulders heavily, not attempting to hide a second, much deeper sigh. She gazed solemnly past the plus sign that confirmed what she'd already intuited—she was carrying Olivia Benson's child—and gave a discouraged little shake of the head. "Well, the good news is we've got about eight months to decide on a name. Bad news is I'm about to get really damn fat."

"What?" Olivia grabbed the edge of the tub like someone had slammed on the brakes. Her eyes grew progressively wider as she studied Amanda's own widening grin.

"Congrats, little darlin'," Amanda said, as the pregnancy test was snatched from her hand, Olivia squinting distrustfully at the positive results, despite the glasses perched on her cute kittenish nose. "You're gonna be a mommy. Times four. Told you it'd only take one good squirt."

"Amanda!" Olivia was on her feet now, and it was a good thing. For a moment it had appeared she might topple over backwards into the tub in an outburst of sheer excitement. "Don't ever do that to me again, you butthead," she scolded, without taking her eyes off the plastic wand cradled in her hands. She was grinning too, and if Amanda wasn't mistaken, the tears weren't far behind.

The captain might be the biggest badass in all five boroughs, but she was also deeply sensitive and wore her heart on her sleeve. It was one of the many complexities Amanda loved best about her wife. Her Liv.

"Again? Geez, babe, how many kids you plannin' on me poppin' out? Not all us Southern gals are meant to be barefoot and pregnant baby factories, y'know." Snickering, Amanda rose to her feet as well, catching Olivia by the shoulders as the taller woman paced to and fro on the bath mat, oblivious to the joke and everything else but that plus sign. She stooped down to catch a glimpse of warm brown eyes, and sure enough, there were tears shimmering on Olivia's dark lashes and in the rims of her glasses. "Happy, darlin'?"

In lieu of a reply, Amanda found herself lifted off the ground and deposited on the counter beside the sink, where Olivia proceeded to kiss her senseless. "What's that thing you Southern gals say?" Olivia asked, lips love-stained and quirked at the corner when she drew back. "Happy as a pig in shit."

They dissolved into helpless, giddy laughter when Amanda slid the pregnancy test from Olivia's grip, studied it for a moment, then declared in her sultriest Georgia drawl, "Oink oink, baby."

**. . .**


	3. Pat-a-Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, AO3. You sure know how to make a fanfic writer feel loved. *sigh* 
> 
> Here's my author's note from ff.net: I debated whether or not to post this right now (and kind of forgot I was going to, tbh), but I need a distraction from doom scrolling. I hope it helps take your mind off of things for a little while, too. This section was divided to keep the chapters somewhat similar in length, so the next update will be a continuation of this one. Also, a little Easter egg reveal: this part takes place around the time of "Devil Went Down to Georgia." I wrote that one knowing Olivia and Amanda were already married, and Amanda was pregnant... I just couldn't tell you and ruin the surprise. The hints are there if you look for them. ;)

**CHAPTER 3:** Pat-a-Cake

**. . .**

If Olivia had disliked cake and ice cream served simultaneously before, she was even less of a fan now that she'd seen them mixed together in reverse. It had taken a considerable degree of self-control—and some serious deep breaths through the mouth—for her not to flee the stall, abandoning her pregnant wife face-down in the toilet, to pray to the porcelain god in the next stall over.

Thankfully she managed to keep down her slice of white sheet cake, but the buttercream frosting had left behind a cloying, sticky film that made her lick her teeth every few seconds, and grimace. Any squeamishness she had for vomit was long ago vanquished by cleaning up her mother's frequent and far-reaching bouts of emesis. With three kids and two dogs at home, not to mention a city full of miscreants who had flung everything from a glass eye to very real feces at her, there weren't too many things that grossed her out anymore.

Nevertheless, while she held Amanda's long blonde mane aloft, stroking the shuddering, heaving back beneath it, Olivia had felt her stomach churning dangerously, her mouth gone slack and humid. It was almost as if she were experiencing morning sickness right alongside her wife, but that was preposterous. She had reread every baby how-to book still left on the shelf from her first two adoptions, and was devouring all the parental guides that had been published since—she was aware of couvade syndrome, otherwise known as sympathy pains. And she'd seen a hysterical pregnancy or two on the job. But she wasn't some attention-seeking man trying to steal the limelight from his wife, nor a headcase with an imaginary baby in her belly.

So, why did she still feel vaguely nauseated as she made her way back to the table decorated in pink and white balloons and crêpe paper streamers? Her breasts had been extra tender the past week or so, come to think of it. Some mild cramping, too. Both were symptoms she'd thought long gone, like the menstrual cycle they once heralded. And she had started to doze off at her desk during quiet moments at the precinct; in fact, she felt dead on her feet all of a sudden, barely able to make it to the empty princess throne—a high back chair festooned in more crêpe paper and fairy lights—before sinking down heavily on the tufted upholstery.

Maybe she _was_ experiencing some couvade syndrome, after all. She wanted to curl up in the middle of Matilda's birthday spread, among the floe of paper plates and plastic utensils smeared with icing, puddles of melted strawberry ice cream going stagnant in between ( _blech_ ), and sleep. Daphne and Kat could watch the girls for twenty minutes. Or sixty. They had rented the party room for three hours . . .

"How's the champeen projectile vomiter of the Upper West Side doing?" came Daphne's chipper little voice, just as Olivia's eyelids were drifting shut. Speak of the devil.

"Hm? Oh. Sorry." Olivia inhaled deeply and sat up straight in the chair that was meant for her three-year-old daughter. The tiny little girl had looked every bit the dainty fairytale princess seated at the head of the table in her specially decorated throne. Now she was off playing in the castle-shaped jungle gym at the opposite end of the royally-themed party room, her faithful subjects (Noah, Jesse, Fin's grandson Jaden, Kat's niece Amira, and three little girls from daycare) tearing through the ball pit moat, the clattering drawbridges, and the chunky plastic turrets like a royal court gone mad.

"She's washing up," Olivia said, yawning just watching the youngsters with their boundless energy and unbridled imagination. If Amanda didn't push the next one out soon, Olivia was going to be too old and exhausted to enjoy motherhood for the fourth and final time. "Got some in her hair. I tried to get her to let me help, but you know how that goes."

" _I do it myself_ ," Daphne said, in a perfect, cartoonish imitation of the piping voices that filtered over from the castle keep. Height-wise, the tiny clerk wasn't much bigger than the children she mimicked, at least the older ones. Noah was gaining on her fast.

"Ah, so you have met my wife." Olivia leaned back against the throne and closed her eyes, a tired smile on her lips. She really should be helping Daphne tidy up the ransacked table, but God, she was sleepy. "I swear, Daph, sometimes I feel like I'm about to be raising five kids."

"Aww. Your very own Walton's Mountain."

"Ha," Olivia said, fading again. She was almost out, until a taller speaker with a slight husk in her thick Bronx accent joined the conversation.

"What's Walton's Mountain?"

Olivia opened her eyes a crack, peering at her youngest and leggiest officer as if she had asked who The Beatles or Madonna were. _Oh God_ , Olivia thought, lids suddenly snapping wide, _she probably didn't know who The Beatles or Madonna were_. Luckily, Daphne was staring up at Kat with the same flabbergasted expression, which Kat returned upon finding her boss and her girlfriend both directing it at her—rather accusingly, Olivia might add.

"What?" The young woman shrugged and gestured into a vague corner somewhere. "Is it upstate or something?"

"Oh, honey." Daphne scooped up a glob of the cake icing Matilda had left untouched on her plate, along with most of the cake itself and all the ice cream (Olivia's stomach lowed mournfully), and offered it on her index finger to Kat. When the officer declined, nose wrinkled, Daphne spread the buttercream on her own tongue and helped herself to a second serving before smooshing the plate on top of the tower she'd constructed of mangled leftovers and Chinet. "It's a good thing you're pretty."

"It's from an old television show," Olivia explained to Kat, who looked like she didn't know whether to be pleased or annoyed by Daphne's comment on her beauty.

The pair had been dating since shortly after Olivia and Amanda's wedding, and though they made a cute couple—the height difference alone was visual comedy gold—Olivia got the sense that DaphKat was not long for this world. More often than not, their personalities clashed: Kat never got Daphne's jokes and became mortified whenever the clerk flirted with Olivia or Amanda; meanwhile, Daphne went cross-eyed with boredom when Kat mentioned boxing, health food, or male actors she found attractive ("Who the hell is Armie Hammer, anyway? Isn't that a brand of baking soda?" the baffled clerk had asked her friends after one such conversation). The only thing they seemed able to agree on was that the other was hot.

Olivia gave it three more months, tops. She did enjoy seeing them together, though. It was cute how flustered Kat could get about the romance aspect—especially in front of her captain—and if anyone deserved to be getting laid by a sexy young thing like Tamin, it was Daphne Tyler.

Hopefully these family functions wouldn't be too awkward after they split up, but neither woman was vindictive and Olivia didn't foresee any major drama arising. Good thing, too, because Olivia had decided to ask Amanda's thoughts on making Daphne their new baby's godmother. It wouldn't do to have the godmother and surrogate auntie at each other's throats during birthdays and holidays. Dysfunctional family was one of the many ugly realities Olivia and her wife fought like hell to protect their children from.

"Before your time," Olivia added, when Kat still appeared clueless about _The Waltons_. Olivia had preferred _Charlie's Angels_ herself. Seventies' Farrah Fawcett had really been something. And don't even get her started on Suzanne Somers in _Three's Company_ . . .

Apparently badass Captain Benson had always been partial to a pair of sapphire eyes, a head of feathery golden hair, and a body so heavenly, the angels themselves extolled its virtues. Lo and behold, here came such a body now, though the face above it had more of a greenish tint than its usual celestial glow.

The blonde locks, previously loose and sinuous, were watered down to a single pale tendril at the end of Amanda's sloppy braid, like a tongue of flame. It coiled lightly at her bosom, which had grown considerably in just the past week; if Olivia didn't know better, she'd say it had gotten bigger in the five or ten minutes since she exited the bathroom. According to Amanda, she had gone up a whole cup size with Jesse months before she started to show anywhere else. She seemed poised to repeat the same generous outpouring with little Apple Pip (the baby's current size and temporary nickname).

Olivia had no complaints. In fact, she and Amanda were planning to take full advantage of the new bounty later that evening—provided they could both stay awake to enjoy the main event. They hadn't made it past foreplay without one of them falling asleep since not long after the positive pregnancy test.

"Ugh," Amanda groaned, slumping into the next chair over and readily melting into the one-armed embrace Olivia extended. Her blonde head, frizzy with dried sweat and the strawberry ice cream that had been on her fingers when she dashed to the bathroom, came to rest on Olivia's shoulder, her elbow hooked over the arm of the chair. She might not like being coddled while pregnant—or any other time—but she was almost always receptive to cuddles.

"Okay, baby?" Olivia asked, sweeping Amanda's bangs back and turning a kiss to her clammy forehead.

"Uh-huh. Think some of my brains came out through my nose in there, and I'll never eat white cake and pink ice cream again, but I'm good." The detective nuzzled at the crook of Olivia's neck, reminiscent of Gigi or Frannie seeking more affection.

"You poor thing," Olivia said indulgently, dotting several more kisses to her wife's brow, not the least bit self-conscious that Daphne and Kat were watching with avid gazes. Until their wives were about to give them something they had longed for their entire lives, something they thought lost to them forever, they just couldn't comprehend the love and gratitude that swelled in Olivia's chest every time she looked into Amanda's sweet face, her breathtaking blue eyes. It was like falling in love all over again. "How about we wrap this up early so you and the pip can go home and rest?"

Amanda opened the eyelids that were fluttering as diligently as butterfly wings in an effort not to close, and peered around Olivia at the gaggle of rambunctious children on the playground equipment. "Nah. Let's let 'em get good and tuckered out. Wear off some of that sugar. They'll sleep better t'night." A wink accompanied the final declaration, Amanda's lips protruding in a lazy pucker Olivia had to duck down to intercept.

Daphne heaved a wistful sigh and twirled a birthday candle between her lips, polishing icing off the untapered end. (Matilda had gotten lots of help from her big bubby and big sissy blowing out the troop of striped candles that encircled the wax number 3 on her Cinderella cake.) There were practically heart emojis floating around the little clerk's head as she looked on the affectionate display with open envy. Kat, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as inclined to swoon.

"Isn't morning sickness supposed to happen in, you know, the morning?" the officer asked, a wary expression on her face. Her stance took on a boxer's defensive sway, as if she might be required to dodge a geyser of puke, shooting from Amanda's mouth like Old Faithful, at any moment.

"Actually, it's a misnomer." Olivia stroked Amanda's arm soothingly when she felt the blonde gearing up for a snappy retort. Pregnancy turned her wife into a bit of a grouch, as well as a vomit factory.

The detective's patience with Tamin was already in short supply, even before the younger woman looked at her like a bomb about to explode. Some of it had to do with the officer constantly flouting Olivia's orders—ironic, considering Amanda's policy on asking forgiveness rather than permission—but there was an element of rivalry to the women's work relationship that simultaneously amused and exhausted their captain. Had she said five children? Make it six. Seven, if she counted Sonny.

Welcome to Walton's Mountain, indeed.

"The nausea can happen at any time of the day," Olivia concluded, splaying her hand protectively on Amanda's belly. It had already become an unconscious habit, and Amanda didn't discourage it, so Olivia didn't check the impulse, either. "Not just mornings."

"Is it like that the entire nine months?" Kat asked, sounding more inquisitive than revolted this time. She held open the trash bag for Daphne to dunk an accordion of stacked plates and smooshed dessert with an unceremonious kerplunk. They did make a good team when it came to the post-celebration clean-up.

Olivia deferred the question to Amanda, not wanting to hog the mommy spotlight. She was trying to keep her excitement for the new baby at a moderate level so she didn't irritate her wife, but she could host an entire TED Talk on morning sickness alone, with all the information she had accumulated on the subject.

"Nah." Amanda sighed heavily, lifting her head with a great deal of effort. The third trimester was going to be a bitch. "Mostly around six to nine weeks is the worst. Some women can have it the whole time, but it was only for that little while with Jess. Hopefully Pippi here will settle into her new digs soon, too."

Amanda's palm rested gently on the back of Olivia's hand, their fingers interlaced over the little pip who was still knitting herself together in the warm, undoubtedly Southern comfort of her mama's womb. Probably sipping a sweet tea on the porch swing that very moment. The thought made Olivia grin, until she caught Daphne smiling moonily at her over an armful of paper cups and quickly schooled her features.

"You two _would_ have a baby who's due on Valentine's Day," Daphne said, trying for accusatory but falling short at petulant as she released the load of cups into the trash like a cloud letting loose a brief torrential downpour. "Do you plan these things in advance, or are you just that disgustingly perfect?"

The married women regarded each other for a moment, then answered in unison, "Disgusting."

"But ixnay on the abybay," Amanda stage whispered, tipping a nod at the kids nearby. They were mid-battle with the plastic balls from the ball pit, the older kids occasionally hitting their targets, while the four younger girls dodged and squealed and missed every toss. No one was listening to the grownup discussion at the table. "We haven't told the rugrats yet. Saving it for tonight, actually."

"Oh boy." That was Daphne, who warned that when her four older brothers were presented with their new baby sister, they had asked how to exchange her for one with a penis.

"Good luck." This from Kat, who related a similar tale: after one night of their newborn sister's ceaseless squalling, she and her sisters had tied several _It's a Girl!_ balloons to the baby's bassinet, in hopes of airlifting her back to the stork from whence she came.

And then Amanda, who hunkered against Olivia like she dreaded what their small brood had in store for them: "Oh Lord." Hers was the most harrowing story of all; convinced that a days-old Kim was the ugliest, most shriveled thing she had ever seen, preschooler Amanda had smeared their mother's makeup all over the newborn's face. "I thought she looked pretty good," Amanda confided, shrugging off the gasps and slightly horrified laughter. "Still got pictures somewhere. Li'l Bozo baby."

Olivia had no amusing stories to contribute, unless you counted meeting your brother for the first time at age thirty-nine and being partly convinced he was a serial rapist like your father. She had been disappointed in her choice of siblings then, too. Fourteen years later she was an only child once again, never meant to be from the start. She said a silent prayer of thanks (she'd taken it up again, since the conception of her youngest daughter—praying) that her children would never know what that felt like.

It almost made up for all the rest; the forty-six years of loneliness and heartache that went before.

"Noah loved Tilly from day one," she said, a fond smile on her lips as she watched the boy, currently shielding his littlest sister from an onslaught of plastic ball artillery. His middle sister leapt into the fray, arms filled to capacity, sending a rainbow-colored volley right back at the misguided fools who dared open fire on her siblings. "And Jess was already part of their lives from the start. I think it was just always meant to be. This family. Us."

A chorus of _awww_ 's drew Olivia's attention back to the other women, where her lips were promptly and soundly kissed by Amanda.

"See?" said Daphne, misty-eyed. "Perfectly disgusting."

**. . .**


	4. Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush

**. . .**

Later that evening, the kids bathed, pajamaed, and more or less winding down from the birthday festivities, Olivia gathered them onto the couch, along with both dogs. Seated beside her on the coffee table, across from their babies—human and fur—was Amanda, her hand on Olivia's knee.

It had been the detective who requested they tell the kids this early; she wanted to get out in front of it before they thought she was just getting old and fat, she said. Olivia had agreed somewhat reluctantly, concerned by how such a major life change would affect the trio, following so closely on the heels of the wedding and all that had gone before it. But as Amanda pointed out, the sooner the children were informed of their new sibling's eventual arrival, the more time they would have to adjust to the idea.

"Us too," Amanda had added, catching Olivia's fidgeting hands and tucking them into her own. Funny how someone so impatient and antsy could have such a calming effect.

Now she was gazing expectantly at Olivia, along with five sets of eyes in varying stages of curiosity and suspicion. The precise moment Olivia opened her mouth to speak, Jesse interrupted in that straightforward manner she had, every bit as eager as her mama to get out in front of things:

"Are we in trouble?"

"Not at all, bug," said Olivia, shaking her head firmly at each of the children. Noah looked concerned for a second, but returned to patting Frannie's head, tilted back at him adoringly, upon his mother's reassurance. Matilda folded her hands in her lap, every bit the well-bred young lady. (Sometimes Olivia thought her youngest had more etiquette than she or Amanda did.)

"Nah. Not in trouble," Amanda agreed, then narrowed her eyes at Jesse. "Unless there's a reason you should be . . . "

Jesse flashed a wide, disarming grin. Oh, that dimple. "Not at all, Mama."

"Uh-huh." Amanda didn't sound terribly convinced, and she kept giving their middle child the stink-eye—and getting it right back—until Olivia finally broke up the showdown that would have them here all night if allowed to continue.

"Okay, guys. So, Mama and I have some big, exciting news for you." Olivia cleared her throat once, then twice, as if that might dislodge the words she felt sticking there. She licked her lips and wondered why she hadn't brought a glass of water to the family meeting. This was more stressful than talking to the brass. "We decided, um— that is to say, your mother and I— I mean Detective Rollins . . . wait, no, Mama—"

Oh God. Her children were staring at her like she was having a stroke. Based on her performance so far, they might be right. Wild-eyed, she turned to Amanda for _help!_ , found her ever-supportive wife snickering, and with that as incentive, finally remembered to breathe.

"Are you all right?" Noah queried, his head cocked to one side, mirroring Frannie's inquisitive pose almost exactly.

"I'm fine, sweetie." Left with nothing else to do but laugh at her own nervous floundering, Olivia gave a light, helpless chuckle and nudged Amanda playfully with her elbow. "You think you can do better, wise guy? Let's hear it."

"Watch me." Amanda tweaked at a pair of imaginary shirt cuffs—her loose athletic top didn't even have sleeves, the little show-off—and flexed her arms like she had just donned a spiffy leather jacket. "Listen here, y'all," she said, and managed to sound as if she were slipping on some dark shades. _Hasta la vista_ , _baby_. "What Mommy's trying to say is . . . 'member how we moved into this apartment last year because our family got too big for the old one?"

The kids nodded. Unable to suppress a smirk, Olivia folded her hands together over one knee and leaned in to listen with a touch of wryness. She had a feeling this buildup was about to backfire in ways Miss Amanda Jo hadn't stopped to consider.

"Well, it's about to get even bigger." Amanda made the pronouncement like a game show host presenting the contestants with a brand new vehicle. She was met with blank stares and total silence from the peanut gallery.

Then Noah asked, "Are we moving again?"

"But I don't wanna move. I like it here." Jesse frowned, her bottom lip pouting the same way Amanda's did when the detective was saddled with more paperwork or someone else got the last candy bar from the vending machine. "It's big enough for us. We're little." She reached for her sister's hand, encouraging the younger girl to make herself even smaller by scrunching down on the couch.

"We're little," Matilda echoed, huddled against her older sister.

Amanda signaled a time out, hands crossed in a capital T. "We ain't moving. I meant our family is about to get bigger, not the apartment. I'm—"

"Are we getting another dog?" Jesse sprang from her shrunken posture to full capacity with the exuberance of a jack-in-the-box, nearly toppling Matilda sideways when the only support keeping her upright was suddenly taken away. "Can we get a cat instead?"

"I don't want a cat." Noah sat forward too, prepared to argue his case. "Anyway, Mom's allergic. I want a Saint Bernard this time. Like _Beethoven_. Can we get a Saint Bernard?"

Matilda scooted to the edge of the couch, where her short legs still dangled above the floor, but at least she was on level with her siblings. "I want a horsey! Please?"

As the kids went on shouting out the different species of pets they would like to own (among those that made it into the suggestion box, the most plausible was a turtle; the most exotic, a ring-tailed lemur; and the most elusive, a rainbow unicorn), Olivia grinned at her exasperated wife. "So that's how it's done, huh?" she murmured in Amanda's ear, dotting a kiss to the lobe that was pink with frustration. "Gotta say, I'm impressed."

"You try communicating with these savages. It's like reasoning with the crackheads we bring in."

"What's a crackhead?" Jesse called above the din. ("Giraffe!" "Mermaid!" "Tyrannosaurus Rex!") "I want one of those."

Raising a hand in the air, Olivia snapped her fingers loudly for attention. It was time Captain Benson took charge. She commanded a squad and outranked the majority of the nine hundred eighty-plus cops in her precinct, for crying out loud. She could handle three kids hopped up on cake, ice cream, and birthday fumes. Hopefully. "Okay, eyes up here, guys. We are not getting another dog. Or a cat. Or a hippogriff. The new family member is one hundred percent human. Mama's gonna have a baby. Isn't that exciting?"

Nothing. She might as well have announced her plans to reupholster the couch they were seated on, for all the enthusiasm they expressed. They gazed mildly back and forth between Olivia and Amanda, as if still awaiting the big news. Wow. Tough crowd.

"Wait . . . " Jesse zigzagged her index finger from one invisible point to another, mentally connecting the dots. "You mean a real one?"

"No, Jesse, I've decided to give birth to an American Girl Bitty Baby," Amanda said, with a delivery so dry she might have been speaking to a thirty-five-year-old member of the rat squad rather than her five-year-old daughter. She reached over and ruffled the little girl's hair vigorously. "Of course a real one, you nut. There's gonna be real pee and poop and barf all over the place."

"Gross!"

"Are you adopting this one?" Noah asked, earnest as ever.

Inwardly, Olivia cringed. The term "adopted" had gotten bandied around quite a bit lately, since she and her wife had talked to the kids about officially adopting each other and sharing a hyphenated last name; the kids had loved that—the idea that they were adopting their moms, instead of vice versa. For weeks afterward, Jesse had tried to adopt her school chums, informing them their last name was now Rollins-Benson.

If only it were that easy. So far, all efforts to locate Declan Murphy and obtain consent for Olivia to adopt his daughter were for naught. Olivia was reluctant to have his parental rights terminated by the court, despite Amanda's continued insistence that it would be fine. And maybe it would be—Murphy had never met Jesse or made any attempts to contact or support her. Their case for dissolving him from Jesse's birth records, and subsequently her life, was solid. Olivia knew a handful of judges who would push the adoption through, no questions asked. But what happened when Murphy resurfaced, asking about his plucky, precocious little girl, or when Jesse Eileen finally asked after her daddy?

Olivia had wondered far too long about her own father, that missing part of herself which was taken away, as everything had been by Joseph Hollister, without her consent. She couldn't do that to Jesse, even if it meant having legal custody. She'd been Noah's mother—legally—for four years when Sheila Porter came knocking on her front door . . .

She hated for any of her children to think themselves less valid because some slip of paper—not biology—declared them hers. Blood didn't always guarantee love. Sometimes it just tied you to the person who hurt you most. She wished she could explain that to her kids, but it was probably better that they didn't know. And they never would.

"No, baby, Mama's going to carry this one," she said softly, patting Noah's knobby little knee. "Like she did with Jesse. And since we're married now, the baby will automatically be a Rollins-Benson."

"I wish Ma had carried me." Noah cast a searching look at Amanda, his shy smile widening when she responded, "Me too, son," her eyes suddenly damp and glistening.

The sweet exchange made Olivia's eyes tear as well, but just as she was about to point out that Amanda had been present when Olivia and Noah found each other—had in fact been the first to lay eyes on the boy who would become their son ( _always meant to be, this family, us_ )—Jesse had to have her say.

"Carried you where? You couldn't walk?" The little girl turned an incredulous look to her mothers. "Why is Mama the only one who can carry the baby? Is your arm hurt again, Mommy? Can't me and Noah hold the baby? Tilly's probably too little, but _I_ can pick up a baby." She demonstrated by hauling Matilda into her lap and cradling the toddler like a swaddled infant. Matilda basked in the attention, snuggling up to her sister without a moment's hesitation.

"Lord, child," Amanda sighed, shaking her head in dismay.

"Not that kind of carry," Noah said, his patience for Jesse's rapid-fire questioning not worn quite as thin as Amanda's. "It means carrying the baby in her belly. That's where it lives until it's big enough to come out. Like the joeys that live in the girl kangaroos' pouches. Right, Mom?"

Olivia nodded gravely, though her eyes shone with laughter and maybe a little pride at the impromptu lecture. She hadn't given him the baby talk in well over a year, and she was impressed he'd retained the information and added to it on his own with the joey comparison. "Yep, you're on the right track. Mama's pouch is inside her tummy, though. And if she starts hopping around like a kangaroo, I'm gonna ship her off to the Central Park Zoo."

"You're so dang funny I forgot to laugh," Amanda deadpanned, but she winked at Olivia while the kids rolled around on the couch giggling uproariously at the image of their mama sproinging through the park.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" Noah asked, once he and his sisters recovered from the merriment and the ecstatic licks from both dogs. Frannie plopped her hindquarters onto his lap, engulfing nearly everything but his curly head and dancing feet.

"We don't know for sure yet. She's— the baby is only this big." Olivia spaced her thumb and index finger apart at roughly the size of an apple seed, one eye scrunched shut as if she were trying to view the seed through a microscope. "We have to wait a couple more months to find out the sex."

Noah contemplated the answer for a moment, then declared, "I hope it's a girl."

"Seriously? Another one?"

"Amanda!"

Unfazed by either reaction, Noah nodded. His interest in the feminine had continued to grow in recent months, especially since the wedding. He requested hairstyles from Amanda when she was braiding the girls'—and often Olivia's—hair, and a couple weeks ago he'd clomped into the living room alongside his sisters, each child teetering on a pair of Olivia's high heels. Olivia didn't read too much into it; three months shy of eight years old, it didn't necessarily mean anything. And so what if it did?

"Yeah, girls are funner than boys," he said.

"Well, I can't argue with you there." Amanda smirked, draping an arm over Olivia's knee and clapping the inside briskly, but affectionately. "I'm pretty partial to girls myself. One in particular."

"I want a boy," said Jesse, who needed no encouragement to elaborate. "Boys don't mind getting dirty like Sissy does. Can we name him Mowgli? Or Shere Khan?"

Olivia and Amanda shared a look—no more _Jungle Book_ for Jesse Eileen until after the pregnancy, otherwise they would end up naming the kid Baloo or something—and responded with sounds of noncommittal ("Huh," "Hm"), as if giving the suggestions serious thought.

"How 'bout you, Tilly girl?" Amanda asked, easing the discussion away from Rudyard Kipling with the most finesse she could muster. "What kind of baby do you want?"

Finding all eyes focused on her, Matilda bunched up her shoulders and giggled, a sound like tinkling chimes, butterfly wings, and the sun after a light summer rain. She had defused many a stressful situation with that sweet fairy-magic laughter. It was Olivia's favorite sound in the world, never failing to put a smile on her face.

The little girl slid down from the couch, her bloomerlike pajama shorts riding up in the back before her feet touched solid ground. She stepped closer to examine Amanda thoughtfully, her tiny elbows propped on the blonde's knees. "Baby's in here?" she queried, pointing to her mama's belly, brow crinkled as she tried to work out the connection between the body part and this so-called infant everyone was talking about.

"Yeah, punkin." Amanda raked her fingers lightly through Matilda's curls, sweeping them back to kiss her forehead.

The child was now the same age Olivia had been when she fell and gashed her head open on the bathroom mirror, incurring the zigzag scar over her right eyebrow. Had her mother kissed her like that before the scar? she wondered briefly, then pushed the thought away. All that mattered now was that her children got those kinds of kisses daily, often multiple times, from her and from Amanda.

"Mama's got a baby in there," the detective confirmed. She patted Matilda on the bottom, indulging the little girl's gentle poking and prodding of her abdomen for a while longer. There would probably be a lot of it in the coming months.

"For my birfday?" Matilda gazed up hopefully, from Amanda to Olivia and back again. "My baby?"

Nestling her cheek into Matilda's strawberry patch of curls, Amanda turned a soft, contented smile on Olivia. When she got a nod of assent, she repeated it for their daughter. "I reckon so, Tilly-billy. You got a little wait, though. Gimme about seven more months, then you can have your baby. As long as you promise to take real good care of it, okay?"

"'Kay, Mama." Matilda wrapped her slender arms around Amanda's middle and pressed her face to the flat—for the time being—stretch of belly below. She opened her mouth with a loud smack when she withdrew, imitating the noisy kisses Amanda always gave the kids. Her three-year-old lips hadn't quite mastered the art of puckering just yet. "I yuve you, Baby."

Well. She might not be able to pucker up, but she sure knew how to break hearts. Olivia's eyes welled again, first with emotion and then with laughter, as the older children (and dogs) advanced on her and Amanda, not to be left out of the cuddles—or their responsibilities as caregivers to little Baby Pip.

It was like being inundated by a wave of sheer joy and love. _Yuve_.

Olivia let it carry her away, making no attempts to resist the powerful current. The most beautiful way to drown.

**. . .**


	5. Sugar and Spice

**. . .**

Suddenly the craving was so intense, Amanda could hardly lie still on the exam table. She liked strawberries as much as the next person, but until now she had never salivated over them—well, except when Olivia allowed them in the bedroom, and even then, it wasn't the fruit Amanda was drooling about—never been this tempted to find the nearest produce stand and descend like Godzilla on Tokyo.

It was the damn nurse's fault. Amanda had resented the woman the moment she saw her name tag dangling from the cheeky uterus-shaped badge clip on her candy-pink scrubs: Grace Birdwell, RN.

Of course she would be a Grace, the same name that had caused contention between Amanda and Olivia weeks earlier, when the captain proposed it as a middle name for their daughter. To honor the whoring drunk who had once pushed Olivia down a flight of stairs—karma was a bitch, huh Serena?—for back-talking; had climbed on top of her bleeding, crying daughter and almost strangled her to death; had forced Olivia, already traumatized by the assaults from her childhood and months of rape by her adult boyfriend Daniel, to submit to an unnecessary vaginal exam, essentially raping her all over again.

Amanda was still baffled and, though loathe to admit it, angered by the suggestion. How could Olivia be so damn good at spotting the abuse suffered by others, yet so damn blind at recognizing the abuse she'd endured herself?

"From what you've told me about her relationship with her mother, it sounds like she internalized the belief that she's unworthy, that somehow she deserves the abuse and assaults because her very existence is grounded in them. For lack of a better phrase, she doesn't feel like she's 'good enough' to call it being beaten or raped. It's just part of who she is." That had been Dr. Hanover's take on Olivia's denial, and it made a lot of sense to Amanda. It also broke her heart. Then the psychiatrist had to go and spoil it by adding: "I wonder if it's not a reflection of your own upbringing and experience with normalizing abuse that angers you, rather than your wife's . . . "

Goddamn Hanover. And goddamn Nurse Grace, shoving that name back in Amanda's face. If Olivia had noticed, she didn't mention it. (Of course she noticed; the woman noticed everything.) Nevertheless, it filled Amanda with guilt for putting her foot down so heavily about something Olivia clearly held dear and had shared with such vulnerability and trust.

Mean-Ass Amanda strikes again.

 _Then_ Nurse Grace had compared a fetus's size at eleven weeks to that of a large strawberry, and the shame roiling in Amanda's gut had turned to a deep, steady thunder roll of hunger for anything and everything strawberry.

"Wow. I'm a little bit scared to see what you're cooking up in there," Olivia commented, eyeing Amanda's gurgling belly with amusement. She cupped her hand to the small, conical bump that was just beginning to form high on Amanda's abdomen, and soothed their baby girl with her warm palm. "Sounds rather . . . bestial."

"I think that was all me, actually." Amanda looped an arm behind Olivia's waist—the captain had declined the chair Nurse Grace offered, opting to stand at Amanda's side—and gave her a rascally pat on the fanny. They were alone in the room, waiting on the ultrasound technician. She could get away with it. "I am kind of a sexy beast, though. Admit it, baby."

Olivia rolled her eyes with such force, it was a wonder she didn't bruise her brain. "You're definitely a feral little thing, I'll give you that. Sexy? I dunno, I watched you snarf Spam straight from the can the other day, so . . . " But she was giggle-snorting and making lame attempts to dodge Amanda's frisky touch by the time the technician knocked on the door. She snapped to attention like a mustering soldier as the woman appeared, unaware of the interruption or the sudden switch.

"Well, now, that is the kind of greeting I like to see," the tech commented, noting the huge grins that had yet to fade from Olivia and Amanda's faces. If she had looked a little closer, she might have been curious as to why Olivia was so breathless, but thankfully she just shook their hands and asked if they were ready to "meet" the new baby.

"Yes," Olivia said, managing to infuse her whole heart and soul into that one tiny word. If Amanda wasn't mistaken, there were tears already shining in her wife's deep brown eyes.

"Yep." Amanda brought the back of Olivia's hand to her lips for a quick, habitual peck. "Let's find out who's been giving me heartburn and constipation for the past couple months. I'd like a word."

The ultrasound gel was cold on her bare skin, as promised by the tech, but Olivia's palms, one pressed to hers, the other cradling her elbow, were so very warm. Occasionally Amanda wondered if the captain's physical warmth came from some metaphysical place—that heart and soul she wore on her sleeve, or, just as readily, wore like armor—but it was much too sentimental and artsy-fartsy an idea to dwell on for long.

Besides, after a few moments of the tech probing Amanda's pelvis and abdomen with the transducer, resulting in a series of cosmic blue bursts and black-hole-like pulsations, her baby girl came into view on the mounted screen ahead. This time she didn't care how cliché or artsy-fartsy it sounded: the sight took her breath away. Everything else melted away, and for a brief second—and in that second, a glimpse of the eternal—it was just Amanda, her wife, and their child, cocooned in her heart-shaped womb. Safe, sustained, unscathed by the outside world.

"Is that—" Wide-eyed, Olivia pointed to the monitor, a small gasp indicating that she had spotted the baby's profile too. With that hand she covered her mouth, then her heart, eyelashes batting rapidly. There were definite tears now. "That's her?"

"Well, I can't confirm or deny the 'her' part just yet, but yes, that's Baby Rollins-Benson right there," the technician said, and began rattling off a wealth of information about the fetus's position ("Look at that power pose," Olivia commented, of the baby's casually reclined state) and size.

Amanda barely heard any of it, save the confirmation that everything appeared healthy and normal. She was too taken with her daughter, and Olivia's rapt expression—like she'd seen the face of God—to listen very closely. Olivia would hear it all and later be able to repeat it verbatim, if requested. During Jesse's first ultrasound, alone and terrified about raising a child by herself, Amanda hadn't had that luxury. She had cried from fear, as much as joy, back then. Now the tears that pricked her eyes were of pure excitement, pure love. This time she'd gotten it all right.

"She looks like you," she said to Olivia, knowing it was ridiculous (the blob on the screen more resembled some elusive sea creature of the Nessie variety than a drop dead gorgeous captain), and not caring. It was just the kind of thing her wife would love to hear. "Strong profile. And is that a smirk I see?"

Olivia tried to fasten on a smirk of her own, but ended up grinning instead. "I think it's a dimple. She has your bone structure. And you gotta be flexible to maintain that posture. Wait, is that—" She craned her neck, squinting at the monitor. "Yep, she's giving us a tiny little middle finger. Totally your kid."

"Dork." Amanda shook her head and snickered.

Chuckling along at the banter, the technician allowed them another moment or two of googly-eyed adoration before softly clearing her throat and inquiring, "How 'bout it, moms, would we like to hear baby's heartbeat?"

"Yes," said the moms, in tandem.

After another firm rotation of the transducer that cinched it—Amanda would be making a beeline straight to the bathroom once this checkup was over—the tech pointed to a flicker on the screen, no bigger than the head of a pin, and turned a dial on the ultrasound machine. "Get ready for your new favorite song," she proclaimed, just as a hollow gusting sound gave way to a steady thrumming beat.

"Oh," Olivia breathed, so delicately she was barely audible over the persistent knocking of their daughter's heart. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, eyes welling, and this time the tears fell, wetting her cheeks and the back of her hand like a spring rain sprinkling through the sunshine.

Amanda tried to chuckle at her sweet, sensitive captain—such a damn girl—and instead burst into tears along with her. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of one hand, she tucked the other, still holding Olivia's, under her chin. "Babe, you're making me cry, cut it out," she said, with no real conviction. It had to be the damn pregnancy hormones. But each beat of that precious winking heart on the screen, confirming the life growing inside her, went right to the soul. It was the closest thing she'd had to a religious experience, outside a couple tent revivals as a kid and outside of the bedroom she shared with her wife as an adult.

"Sorry, love." Olivia murmured the apology against Amanda's forehead, bussing her there lightly, anointing her bangs with more tears. "Just . . . look what you made. She's perfect."

"What _we_ made." As far as Amanda was concerned, the baby was as much Olivia's creation as her own. Just because biology hadn't caught up with the changing times didn't make it any less true. She was carrying Olivia's child, end of story. And Amanda would keep reminding her of that for however long it took.

"She is perfect, right?" she asked, prying her gaze from the monitor only long enough to glance anxiously at the technician. "'Cause I had a placental abruption with my last pregnancy, and I don't ever wanna go through that again . . . "

Olivia tensed at the mention of the birth complication that had almost cost Amanda and Jesse their lives. She'd been present when the abruption occurred and Amanda knew for a fact the captain had been reading up on warning signs and likelihood of recurrence in future pregnancies (Olivia often forgot to close out of browsers after googling something on her phone or laptop), though she wasn't saying much about it. Amanda didn't like to bring it up, either, but they would both rest easier knowing their baby wasn't at risk.

"I'm not seeing any indication of that here. Fluid pockets look good and the levels are normal, but placental abruptions don't typically occur until the last few weeks of a pregnancy, so it's something you and the doctor can keep an eye on." The tech smiled and handed over a box of tissues like it was an automatic step in the exam process. "The good news is, placental abruptions are fairly uncommon, even if you've previously had one. And baby's heart rate is excellent, your fallopian tubes and uterus are shipshape, and there's no sign of placenta previa. Everything appears totally healthy. Or perfect, as you say."

"Hallelujah." Amanda gave Olivia's hand a faint squeeze, smiling encouragingly when her wife cast a troubled look from her to the monitor and back again.

"What about . . . " Olivia nibbled her bottom lip, her free hand going to Amanda's shoulder in an almost apologetic gesture. "What about her age? Is that something we should be worried about?"

"You calling me old?" Amanda teased, poking at Olivia's belly with an index finger extended from their conjoined grasp.

"Yeah, thinking about changing your name to Methuselah," Olivia said offhand, though her attention was focused on the technician.

The woman, whose name tag read Mei—not Grace, thankfully—laughed at the subtle barb and scanned Amanda's chart on the computer screen beside the ultrasound monitor. "Medically speaking, forty-one _is_ considered advanced maternal age, but women are putting off having kids for longer and longer these days. If it's a major concern of yours, I can do a nuchal translucency scan. It helps rule out Downs, trisomy eighteen, and the like? Just need to draw some blood and look at a couple more things with the probe."

Amanda sighed, knowing full well what the answer would be without needing to consult with Olivia first. Her DIY strawberry festival would have to wait a little while longer, it seemed. "Sure, might as well cover all our bases." She held out her arm to Mei the technician. "Hit me with your best shot."

"Give me one second to grab the syringe." Mei rolled her chair over to the cabinet full of medical supplies beneath the sink in the corner. "Then I'll get you fixed right up, Ms. Methuselah."

* * *

Later, when they were finally home in bed, Amanda consuming a massive bowl of strawberry shortcake and admiring the sonogram picture of baby Samantha ( . . . Joy? Adélaïde? Josephine?), and Olivia fiddling with the fetal doppler she'd driven all the way to Target to buy "on a whim," Amanda suddenly flapped the blotchy screenshot in the air.

"Oh, I figured out who she reminds me of," she said around a mouthful of angel food and Cool Whip. Olivia might not be able to cook worth a darn, but she put together a mean ready-made dessert. She'd even obliged Amanda's request to sprinkle extra sugar over the strawberries. "Captain Cragen."

"I thought you said she favored me," Olivia murmured, her nose buried in the instruction manual for the Sonoline B, eyes skimming each line with impressive speed. She read books, magazines, DD-5's, and anything else with a central theme and a story arc—even about electronic equipment—like they were going out of style. Such a nerd. An adorable, sexy nerd.

"She does. But, you know, she's bald. And sometimes you and Cragen . . . " Amanda wavered her hand side to side and made an iffy _ehh_ noise, as though, occasionally, she couldn't distinguish her wife from her old boss. "In certain lighting . . . I'm just sayin'."

That got the captain's attention, and she fixed Amanda with one of her signature Benson glares over the top of her glasses. It never failed to turn Amanda on when she did that. Her mouth began to water for reasons other than the dessert she was shoveling into it. Stabbing a succulent-looking strawberry half—she'd actually been saving it for last, it looked so good—with the tines of her fork, she used the fruit wedge to scoop up a dollop of whipped cream, and presented the treat to Olivia's smirking lips.

"Just kidding," she said in her most angelic tone, wearing the expression to match. "Cragen can't hold a candle to you, little darlin'. Even if he had hair and didn't look like a French bulldog in a skin suit."

Olivia snorted, but she accepted the strawberry slyly, gathering it into her mouth with a delicate collaboration of teeth, tongue, and lips. She licked the latter, swiping away an errant tuft of whipped topping, that little pink sliver of tongue every bit as appetizing as any sugar-coated berry. "Mmm. Thanks for that mental image." She reached over and drew her thumb across Amanda's lips, brushing away the sweetness collected there and nursing it from her fingertip. "I'll probably never sleep again, but at least you had your fun."

"Sorry. You got that thing figured out yet, or what?" Amanda sopped up the remaining cream and strawberry mush with the last chunk of angel food cake, crammed the whole enchilada into her mouth, and set the bowl aside on the nightstand. "'Cause I can think of some other electronic devices I'd rather fire up right about now." Seductively, she cracked the bottom drawer of the stand, where they kept their growing cache of sex toys. Soon they would need a bigger drawer.

"I hope you don't think I understood a word of that," Olivia said dryly, her eyebrow cocked at Amanda's full cheeks, then at the nightstand. "But if that's your subtle way of telling me you'd rather have sex than listen to our little girl's heartbeat again, shame on you."

"So much for strawberries being an aphrodisiac," Amanda muttered, only mildly chastised, though she flumped back against the pillows, arms crossed and bottom lip protruding.

"That's chocolate-covered strawberries, my love." The captain plinked at the pouty lip with her fingertip, like the tap of a magic wand. She did sound vaguely like a fairy godmother granting a wish when she added, "And I didn't say no sex. Just let me try out the doppler first, then we can play. With whichever toy your horny little heart desires."

"Ooh, pregnant lady's choice?" Amanda cozied down into the bedding, baring her belly for the tube of aloe vera gel Olivia had at the ready. She shimmied her shoulders and the raised hem of her Van Halen t-shirt (the one with the cigarette-smoking cherub emblem on the front). "Lube me up, baby."

When the green goop—much warmer and sweeter-smelling than the stuff at the OB's office—was smeared on her abdomen, Olivia swirling the probe at half-inch intervals and listening as intently as a fibby on a wiretap, Amanda idly twirled a lock of her wife's hair. Once again she found herself hoping the new baby would have hair that dark and luxurious. And once again she found herself thinking about that damn name. "Kinda funny 'bout that nurse today, huh?" she asked, trying for casual but sounding stagey to her own ears.

"Hm? What nurse?" Olivia only had eyes for the bump she was circling with painstaking care, freezing whenever anything besides static came through the speaker below the handheld display. She frowned each time it turned out to be Amanda's heartbeat or noisy innards.

"Nurse Grace. Birdwell," Amanda said, affecting a snooty upper class accent on the last name. Dammit, why did she always feel the need to do that shit?

"Oh. Yeah." Olivia's frown deepened, though she hadn't paused to listen to anything this time. "Why's that funny?"

"Just . . . her name being Grace 'n' all. Kinda funny coincidence we got a nurse with the same name we disagreed on for the baby. For Sammie. Don't you think?" Amanda twined Olivia's hair around her finger and let the tendril spiral loose. She should have kept her damn mouth shut is what she should have done.

Olivia made a noncommittal noise, barely acknowledging that she remembered the disagreement at all. And why should she? She wasn't the one who had flown off the handle about it. She'd given in to Amanda's demands almost at once. Like always. Even over something as monumental and permanent as her child's name, which she'd carried with her all these years, like so many of the secrets she shared only with Amanda.

"Oh, I . . . I didn't notice," she said, avoiding Amanda's eye. She rotated the transducer again, mouth set in a determined line. Everything the captain did was with such purpose.

"Liv." Amanda tucked the loose strand of hair behind Olivia's ear, fingers trailing along her jaw to her chin, gently lifting. "Maybe we should talk about it some more. I know how important it is to you. I—"

The rest went unspoken when Olivia sighed and absently moved the probe to a spot right above Amanda's pubic hair (she'd gone a little more natural since finding out she was pregnant; pretty soon she wouldn't be able to reach it with a razor anyway, and she refused to whine after her wife to please shave her coochie), a faint chugging sound issuing from the portable doppler. _Chugga-chug-chugga-chug-chugga-chug_.

Definitely too fast to be Amanda's heartbeat, and much too rhythmic to be gastrointestinal. Olivia broke into a wide, delighted grin, looking for all the world—or just the part of it in their little Upper West bedroom—like an ecstatic five-year-old. "Oh my God, listen to her," she whisper-squealed, and though the tears went unshed this time, they sparkled in her eyes all the same. "She's like the Little Engine That Could in there."

"I think I can, I think I can," Amanda tried out, nodding along as if she were jamming to a catchy hip hop song in the backseat of a cruising vehicle. "Yep. Got a good beat. Maybe she's gonna be a rap artist?"

Olivia giggled at that, and Amanda thought it was the sweetest sound she'd ever heard.

Okay, maybe the second sweetest. The little choo-choo train in her uterus was pretty stiff competition.

"She's gonna be whatever she wants to be." Olivia leaned in to kiss the bump, really more of a gentle slope at this angle, then leaned back on her elbow to speak to it. "Even if she comes out male, we won't hold it against her. As long as she's happy and healthy, that's what matters. Right, Sammie?"

The blood test and ultrasound results had been declared normal, the doctor who went over every detail with them—including all the same questions they had asked Mei the tech, along with about fifty new ones—giving Amanda and baby a clean bill of health. He had confirmed the Valentine's Day due date as well. Everything was disgustingly perfect, as Daphne Tyler said. But the more perfect things were, the more Olivia tended to fret about them, unable to trust that good things were meant for her. It was something Serena Grace had long ago instilled in her. Something she might never fully get over.

And yet.

"Samantha Grace Rollins-Benson does have a nice ring to it," Amanda said in a thoughtful tone. She scrunched at the back of Olivia's neck, lightly prompting instead of trying to make it tickle like she normally did. "Little Sammie Gra—"

Catching Amanda open-mouthed, Olivia kissed her so thoroughly and deeply, she almost forgot what she'd been saying. Hell, she almost forgot her own name, let alone the kid's. She knew right then they probably wouldn't be discussing anything name-related the rest of the evening—not with the way her aforementioned coochie was reacting to Olivia's blatant attempt at changing the subject.

The captain had been especially amorous since the bump started to show, as if her libido were somehow linked to the size of Amanda's waistband. By late January, sweet, by-the-book Liv, who read instruction manuals cover to cover and cried over fetal blips and bloops, would be an all-out nymphomaniac if this kept up.

Frankly, Amanda couldn't wait.

She tucked the name conversation away for later, maybe at work so Olivia couldn't jump her bones to get out of talking about it, and threw herself wholeheartedly into the kiss.

It tasted of strawberries and a pinch or two of sugar.

**. . .**


	6. Twinkle, Twinkle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter because I split the original chapter. The next update will be a continuation of this one. Also, I wrote this before (CANON SPOILER ALERT) Fin got engaged on the show and totally contradicted what I wrote that he would _never_ do. But I think it's funny, so I'm keeping it.

**CHAPTER 6:** Twinkle, Twinkle

**. . .**

"Uh, boss?"

Olivia's eyes had strayed to her laptop screen again, the background of which was too dark for her liking—made the desktop icons harder to distinguish without her glasses—but she couldn't bear to change the picture.

At sixteen weeks, the baby had been the size of an avocado (a description that saw Olivia, in her pajamas, doing a late-night bodega run for guacamole, because Amanda had to have it or die) and, according to the sonogram image commemorated on Olivia's Macbook, most definitely female. Now, week eighteen, the fetus had graduated to a sweet potato, and though they had already locked in Samantha as first name, Amanda kept referring to their unborn child as Tater.

As in: "Okay, Tater, Mama can't button her jeans anymore, give it a rest." Or "Tater tot, that is my bladder, not a basketball." Olivia's personal favorite was, "I'm gonna send Mommy in there with some brown sugar and a bag of mini marshmallows if you don't straighten up, Tatergirl."

In fact, it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything _but_ the little spud sprouting in Amanda's belly. Olivia could focus on her work; had trained herself to do so countless years ago, in spite of whatever else was happening in her personal life, good or bad (usually bad). But when Kat had knocked on her office door and apprehensively dangled the bracelet in front of her, Olivia completely tuned the officer out. She'd been daydreaming of Samantha at that age, coming to her for relationship advice.

Assuming Olivia was still around and of sound enough mind to give it. She had sustained a number of concussions over the years . . .

"I'm sorry, what?" She closed her laptop and rested her hand over the Apple logo, fixing a steady, boss-lady gaze on Officer Tamin. Not distracted at all, no sir.

"You really think she'll like it? It's not too . . . I dunno, obscene or whatever?" Kat swayed the gold medallion back and forth like a hypnotist with a pocket watch. Eagerly, she placed it in Olivia's outstretched palm, when a second look was requested.

Actually, the dime-sized medallion, centered on the bracelet's delicate gold chain, was quite pretty. And to tell the truth, Olivia had thought the symbol in the middle was an all-seeing eye hieroglyph at first glance. Only when Kat rushed to explain that the vulva etched into the coin-like charm represented Lilith, the mythical sex goddess, did Olivia realize the rays that shone from the sacred design were not eyelashes; the tiny nub at the top was a clitoris, not a tear duct; and the concentric ovals were labia, not eyelids.

Olivia didn't have the heart to tell Kat that Lilith was also depicted as a demon and a bit of a succubus in most literature, religious and non. Besides, the bracelet was a gift for Daphne, and knowing the little clerk, she would probably be thrilled with those details. "Obscene? No. Maybe a tad suggestive, but that suits Daph perfectly. I think she'll love it."

She had never intended to become the relationship guru of her squad, or even to get involved with their personal lives. But somehow she'd always gotten pulled into the middle of Elliot Stabler's marital woes, later becoming a similar go-between for Nick Amaro and his wife. Now she was married to one of her detectives and advising her youngest officer on birthday gifts for a girlfriend of four months. The only person who didn't consult her about their love life was Fin, and it would be a cold day in hell before that ever happened.

Kat beamed at the bracelet when Olivia handed it back with her stamp of approval. She looked mighty pleased with herself, carefully dunking the slender band into a little velvet jewelry pouch that sealed by pull-tie. Something in her eagerness reminded Olivia of last Christmas and Amanda's giddy expression when she presented Olivia's repaired Breitling. She thought of the earrings that Alex Cabot had sent as a wedding gift—partially responsible for the diamond and sapphire ring that now resided on Olivia's finger—and how much trouble a few bits of lovely, shiny frippery could cause.

"How are you guys doing?" she asked, surprising even herself with the question. As a boss, it wasn't her place to ask, but as a friend to Daphne and a mentor to Kat, she couldn't help feeling invested in their fledgling romance. "You and Daph, I mean."

"Pretty good. I think." Kat folded her lips into a smile too tight to be convincing. She gazed askance at Olivia for a moment, bouncing the jewelry pouch up and down in her palm as though measuring its heft. "I mean, we're not ready to settle down and get married or anything, but we have fun together. Why . . . she say something to you?"

"No, no. Not all." Olivia sliced her hands in opposite directions, cutting that line of inquiry off at once. "I just, uh . . . I know Daphne's the life of the party and it can seem like nothing ever gets her down, but she's— she's had a rough couple of years. Go easy on her, huh Tamin?"

How much the officer knew—if anything—about the Catskills attack that had left Daphne with a permanent limp, Olivia couldn't say. Neither she nor Amanda had ever discussed that harrowing trip with Kat, and it was doubtful the younger woman had ever heard the name Meredith Ashton mentioned at all. Daphne rarely spoke of her murdered girlfriend anymore.

Poor Mere. None of them did.

"Copy that, Captain." On her way to the door, Kat turned back with a hopeful look. "You guys are coming to the party tonight, right? Rollins isn't, like, gonna hatch a baby when we yell surprise?"

For someone with younger siblings and a couple of nieces and nephews under her belt, Officer Tamin knew precious little about childbirth. She spoke of pregnancy and its attributes as if it were a rabid animal she held at arm's length, attempting not to get bitten. "Amanda's not 'hatching' anything until February," Olivia said, chuckling. "We'll be there. We owe Daph a good party, after all the energy she put into the wedding hoopla. Of course, we still owe you for those lap dances at the bachelorette party too . . . "

Before Kat had time to respond, or even blush very brightly at the mention of the strippers she'd sent over to grind in her boss and colleague's laps one drunken evening back in March, the office door flew open and Amanda barreled in at top speed, a hand on her swollen belly.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Olivia asked, on her feet at once, the glasses she'd been fiddling with—folding and unfolding, dangling from the crook of one finger—clattering onto her desk. She got a head rush from standing too fast, her heart leaping into her throat as if by the same momentum.

"Nothing's wrong. Just put your hand here." Amanda took Olivia by the fingers that were already outstretched in concern, pressing them to her lower abdomen and guiding them along the bottom curve like she was maneuvering a cursor via computer mouse. She paused at a spot just above the rubber band she had fashioned into a waistband extender by looping it around the button of her jeans. (Olivia was taking her shopping for maternity clothes soon, whether she liked it or not.)

"Right there!" The detective practically flounced with excitement, her blue eyes bright and limitless as the ocean. "Feel 'at?"

"No? What am I supposed to be feeling?" Olivia studied her wife's rosy complexion, the feverish delight on the upturned, pretty face, and cupped her free hand to Amanda's forehead. She tested both cheeks with the backs of her fingers.

"I'm fine," Amanda said, shooing the hand away and drawing it down to join the other on her belly. "Seriously, you can't feel that? Here, darlin'. She's kicking."

Olivia wished she had a second pair of glasses to fling aside dramatically. Instead, she gasped and splayed her palms open on the bump like she was holding a large bowl made of delicate crystal. She leaned forward slightly, inclining an ear as if she might hear the faint pitter-patter of tiny feet from inside Amanda's uterus. All she heard was her watch ticking, her wife panting after that sprint from the squad room, and Kat internally screaming at getting caught in the vicinity of an animate fetus.

"I don't feel anything," she whispered, hands slowly rotating around the bump, searching for the little flutter she had read about.

It was called quickening, when the baby started to move inside the womb—she loved that. This child, little Samantha fill-in-the-blank Rollins-Benson, would be Olivia's very first quickening. She'd never had a family member whose pregnancy she could experience vicariously; her niece (now her only living blood relative) had already been a year old by the time Olivia found out about her. And though she'd touched a pregnant belly or two throughout her career, it was always as a protector, an advisor, never as someone who got to share in the joy of the life that was forming, quickening, inside. She hadn't even felt it when Kathy Stabler was pregnant, or when Amanda was carrying Jesse, not wanting to overstep her bounds by asking for something so personal.

As much as Noah and Matilda were a part of her—bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh—she had missed their earliest signs of life as well: the sonograms and heartbeats, the first kicks and first cries. She wasn't going to miss a single moment of it with her youngest child, that she had vowed the very second the pregnancy test read positive.

Unless, of course, the child decided not to cooperate. "Nope, nothing," Olivia sighed when Amanda directed her fingers to several different spots on the belly, gazing up expectantly each time. "It's probably still too early for me to pick up on it, love. Maybe in a couple more weeks."

"Damn." Amanda echoed the sigh, her shoulders sagging beneath the blouse she'd recently stolen from Olivia's side of the closet. ("What, it's roomier in the boobs," was the blonde's innocent response when she saw Olivia eyeing the black button-down with the confetti-trail pattern of white hearts.) "She was doing gymnastics in there a minute ago. Thought for sure you'd be able to feel it. Sorry, babe."

The detective reached up to stroke a thumb along Olivia's cheek, probably still pale from the brief scare she'd just received. She had been trying not to let on how anxious she was about Amanda's and the baby's health, not wanting to create any undue stress during such a critical time, but she'd been treating her wife as if she were breakable since the pregnancy began to show. Oddly enough, Amanda was handling her with almost as much care.

"Didn't mean to freak you out," Amanda said apologetically. "Guess I got a little excited. Pro'ly what set her off in the first place."

"Hm?" Olivia was fussing again, first with the bump, then with her former blouse, which was adorably outsized on the blonde's slight shoulders, and finally with the wispy strands of Amanda's hair. She wouldn't dare be so demonstrative outside her office, but in here, she made the rules—or broke them, on occasion.

"Oh, I's just thinking about you in that skimpy see-through thing with the straps." Amanda sidled closer, a coquettish smile on her lips as she demonstrated, tracing the outline of Olivia's bra straps beneath her striped crepe blouse. Most likely she was plotting when to steal that top next, the little thief. "You know, the purple one with the matching—"

Kat cleared her throat, loudly and off-key. "I'm . . . I'm just gonna go back to my desk now," she announced, her voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy's. As fast as Amanda had entered the room, that was how fast the officer scuttled for the exit. "See you at the party," she mumbled, closing the door without making eye contact.

"Was she here the whole time?" Amanda gazed after the younger woman in surprise, like she'd just noticed a landmark she passed every day on her way to work. She gave a small, dismissive shrug and cinched her arms around Olivia's waist, bringing them belly to bump. "So, whadda you say, Cap'n? Think that little purple number could make another appearance tonight, after the shindig? Might could get the Tater wound up again . . . "

"I say you two are going to get me fired for conduct unbecoming," Olivia burred in her wife's ear, stealing a warm nuzzle, a quick kiss. "But if that's what my sweet potatoes want, that's what my sweet potatoes get. I'll just be a stay-at-home wife who parades around the apartment in skimpy lingerie all day, hm?"

"Yeah, baby!"

**. . .**


	7. Hey Diddle, Diddle

**. . .**

Their sweet potato was now the size of a papaya, and according to Amanda, she was twice as active in the womb as Jesse had ever been. Twice as stubborn too, her refusal to make her presence known to Olivia becoming a running gag between the mothers. "Think you're just wearing one of those rubber pregnancy bellies so you can steal my clothes and get outta work," Olivia had mumbled, when Amanda grabbed her hand, waking her from a dead sleep, and splayed it on the bump a few nights ago. "Go t'sleep, you big fat fakers."

"What the hell's a biff aff acre?" Amanda had mumbled back, neither of them awake to hear an answer—or to feel the fetus turning somersaults for another half hour, still energized by her mothers' pre-bedtime workout. They certainly liked to wrestle, those two ladies who were always chattering at her.

Today, they were chattering with a lot of other ladies whose voices Samantha didn't recognize, though they seemed to be focused on her, and a new hand settled over her every few minutes. She only liked it when the ones called Mommy and Mama did that, so she kept to herself and napped through most of the baby shower. After all, she was no bigger than a papaya, and the extra attention was very tiring.

"What even is this?" Daphne asked, turning over in her hands the box that sported a blissfully smiling woman next to the Tommee Tippee label. She studied the _Actual Size_ picture of the device within, obviously not reading the fine print. "A baby trumpet?"

"It's a breast pump," said Bella Sullivan, née Carisi, the giver of the gift in question. Sonny had insisted that his younger sister would attend the baby shower, despite having her own brood at home and one more on the way. She was twice Amanda's size and hadn't stopped grazing the snack table since her arrival. Most of the spread—which included a macaron tower in pink ombré, strawberry tarts made to resemble tiny pastry diapers, and a cheeseball shaped like an alphabet block—had been supplied by her mother, whom she'd brought along by special request. Mrs. Carisi was a big hit at parties.

"Mine was a lifesaver with my little ones," Bella added, rubbing her massive baby bump compulsively. "I'd have had a kid permanently attached to both sides without it. Never would've left the house."

"Bella," Mrs. Carisi scolded lightly, a hand on her daughter's arm.

Daphne pulled a face, upon realizing what she held in her hands, and she hastily shoved it towards Kat like she was passing a football with several linebackers in hot pursuit. Kat set the box aside using only her fingertips, which she then wiped down the thighs of her pants to get the cooties off. Maybe the two younger women were made for each other, after all.

Their antics made Olivia roll her eyes and snicker as she polished off one last bite of the fruit salad that was served inside a watermelon carved into a baby cradle. Just wait till they got a load of the postpartum mesh underwear and cotton breast pads Amanda had raved about ("Trust me, babe, I'm gonna be leaking like a sieve for a few months afterwards," the detective confided, rather ominously), and which Olivia had purchased in bulk for her soon-to-be excessively moist wife. Daphne and Kat would probably implode at the words "lochia" and "colostrum."

Baby showers, on the whole, were kind of ridiculous, Olivia must admit—she refused to melt candy bars onto diapers and pass them around for guests to sniff, lick, and "guess the poo"—but she was enjoying herself nonetheless. It was yet another rite of passage as a mother that she had missed out on, until today.

Some of the women were even doting on her, as though she were the one giving birth. The chief's wife, Lamai, and Mrs. Carisi in particular kept shooing her back to the couch whenever she tried to clear paper plates from the coffee table or offered someone a refill. A new mother should conserve her energy, they kept insisting, no matter how many times she pointed out that the baby wasn't due for several more months and Amanda would be the one in labor. "You sweet child," Mrs. Carisi had chuckled, patting Olivia on the cheek. "A newborn is a whole new set of rules. Especially with three other little ones still needing their mama. Once I hit four, I was ready to pack up my bags and move to Positano."

"Gee, thanks, Ma," Bella piped in.

Speaking of the other little ones, today joined by Abby Garland, Sofia and Nicholas Sullivan, and Jesse's best friend Jillian: they had wandered into the living room to stare at the grown women who were currently voicing a chaotic, poorly harmonized rendition of the _I Dream of Jeannie_ theme song, inspired by the Diaper Genie that Amanda had just unwrapped. And, of course, led by the party maestro herself, Daphne Tyler.

When the chorus ended, the kids and the adults faced off a few moments longer. Then Jesse proclaimed, "Y'all need to calm down"—an assessment she and her siblings often heard from Amanda, during their rowdier playtimes—and sauntered over to wedge in between her mothers on the couch.

The other children filtered in after her, each joining their respective mothers (or grandmother, in the Sullivans' case), scattered about the room in whatever seating arrangement they could find. Matilda scaled Olivia's knees like an expert mountaineer, luxuriating in the embrace she was wrapped into; Noah perched on the arm of the couch beside Amanda, assuming the role of sentinel that he'd bestowed on himself since finding out his Ma was pregnant.

"We're bored," Jillian announced, rather boldly for such a shy little thing. That's what a month of after-school playdates and sleepovers with Jesse Eileen would get you.

"Yeah, is the party over yet?" Abby asked, draping against Lamai's chest with a dramatic sigh.

"We're hungry," chimed the Sullivan siblings.

A clamor of names rang out as the mothers shushed their restless younglings, but it was the nannies, Lucy and Sienna, who really rescued the festivities and the children—death by boredom—from an untimely end. The two young women gathered their charges, old and new, for an outing to the park, Jules offering to tag along and help wrangle the septet. She was understandably cautious about letting Jilly out of her sight now, especially with women she didn't know well.

Despite whittling down the guest list to a mere six attendees, the apartment was still overcrowded and a bit stuffy when the park-goers left. Olivia suspected the stew of pregnancy hormones wafting from her wife and Carisi's sister might have something to do with the room's close atmosphere. Luckily, there were only a few presents left to open (a set of plush zoo creatures, with an attachable pacifier, from Kat; a wreath constructed of rolled up onesies, special delivery from Grandmama Brooks and Great-Aunt Ouise all the way in Loganville; and about a million diapers in organic, cloth, and good ol' Pampers, from everyone else), and Melinda Warner was soon besting the entire group at Guessing Mama's Measurements, her lengths of snipped yarn an exact match to Amanda's current belly and bust sizes.

"I don't even wanna know how you did that, do I?" the detective asked, covertly, of the wryly grinning medical examiner. Melinda had done very well about not talking shop in front of the civilians this time around.

"Not even a little bit."

They were in the middle of playing a game called Feed the Baby, which entailed partnering up in twos—bibbed and blindfolded—and trying to feed each other from cups of applesauce with tiny spoons, when Amanda eased off Olivia's blindfold, hushed her with a finger to the lips, and motioned for her to follow towards the bedrooms.

It was a shame to leave while Mrs. Carisi and Bella were driving every bite home with impressive accuracy, clearly in it to win it; Daphne and Kat were bathing in apple goop, squealing and gagging, their hair and faces smeared with golden slime; and Lamai and Melinda were laughing too hard to even locate each other's mouths. But Amanda tugged Olivia insistently by the hand, leading her down the hall and into the nearest bedroom, which belonged to their daughters. She pushed Olivia inside, shut the door behind them, and turned her back to it, a wide, mischievous grin on her slightly rounded face.

"Sweetheart, I know the hormones have you all, uh, hot and bothered right now," Olivia said, and cast a pointed glance at the battalion of dolls lined up on Matilda's side of the room. That should be enough to put the kibosh on any romantic notions the detective might be entertaining. "But I am not having a quickie with you in our daughters' bedroom while the chief's wife is sitting at our dinner table. Suck it up, tiger."

"It ain't that. Well . . ." Amanda paused to reconsider, then shook her head as if dismissing the thought. "Maybe later. Just gimme your hand, hurry. Oh, not like that, hush up. Our kid's all up in here doing Krav Maga or some shit, and I don't want you to miss it."

Olivia gave the baby bump a skeptical look when Amanda gestured to it emphatically. She loved any excuse to touch her wife's burgeoning belly, but the disappointment of not feeling that quickening she so anticipated—so longed for—had started to weigh on her mind. What if Samantha just . . . didn't like her? If a mother could give birth to a child and feel absolutely nothing for it, no matter how hard the child tried to win her love, mightn't the roles be reversed as well? A child feeling nothing for its mother (especially one it didn't share any DNA with)?

The thought made her hesitate, hand outstretched, heart aching. As she had in so many of the most crucial moments of her life, she froze. From the outside, barely noticeable; from within, Olivia felt like she was falling. Her stomach flip-flopped the way it had when she watched Amanda sliding off the edge of that cliff in the Catskills. Only this time, she was the one about to take the plunge.

But then Amanda had her by the hand, guiding it to the bump and giving her something real and steadfast to hold onto. Beneath her palm, cupped gently to the warm swell that had already entirely captured her heart, she felt her daughter stirring. Not quite the flutter she had expected, it took her a second to perceive the glimmer of sensation, and she almost drew back in surprise.

"Oh my— I think . . . " Olivia coasted her hand lower on Amanda's abdomen, seeking out the fleeting movement. It felt like a little fish skimming her palm underwater. Just darting by to say hello. She gasped and pressed her other palm to the undercurve, as if she might catch the little fish barehanded. "I can . . . Wow. Is that really her? It's not just all those pigs in a blanket you ate?"

Amanda scoffed at the mention of the finger-food platter she had decimated within minutes of Mrs. Carisi's arrival. The cocktail weenies had smiley faces drawn on in mustard, to resemble swaddled infants. Kind of creepy, but Amanda loved hot dogs in any form, even when they resembled those demon kids from _Village of the Damned_. "I only ate three. Plus, four more. And yes, smartass, that is our child, not my gastrointestinal distress."

Tempering the sassy retort with a fond smile and a playful duck-lipped kiss, Amanda rested a hand on the back of Olivia's, and they reveled together a while longer. "She's strong," Amanda whispered, as if anything louder might break the spell and send the fetus into hiding once again. "Might have to call her Samson, 'stead of Samantha, you think?"

Snickering, Olivia wrinkled her nose at the proposed name change. "It's a little masculine," she whispered back. "Might give her a complex."

"True. I guess we'll just have to stick with Samantha . . . " Idly, Amanda stroked Olivia's wrist with her fingertips, making it tickle. She glanced up with a searching expression. "Grace?"

It had been a while since they discussed the dilemma of a middle name—one that didn't represent someone whom Amanda loathed and Olivia recalled with only a painful yearning, not unlike that quiet desperation of wanting to feel her daughter kick for the first time. She had thought it might be a step towards healing, towards forgiving Serena, by passing her middle name and initials on to her granddaughter, a perfect, innocent soul who would inspire only love and happiness in Olivia for the rest of her time on earth. But maybe that was an unfair burden to place on the shoulders of one so very small. Maybe Amanda was right, and the specter of Serena Grace should be put to rest for good.

Just as Olivia started to respond, Daphne's voice sang out brightly from the dining room, "Oh, Livvy Sue? Mandy Lou? Olly olly oxen free!"

"Oh, Lord," Amanda groaned, and nodded in that direction. "We better get back out there before she forms a search party. Or makes up even worse nicknames. I just wanted you to be the first to feel them little papaya legs kicking. Happy baby shower, baby."

Olivia pulled her wife in for one last warm and lingering kiss before they rejoined their friends. She poured her heart and soul into it, along with a whisper of tongue. "Thank you," she murmured, her forehead against Amanda's, hand stealing one more stroke at the belly. "For just . . . for everything."

Amanda pecked her lightly on the tip of the nose. "You can thank me later, darlin'. Nice and hard, all night long."

**. . .**


	8. I'm a Little Teapot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I even bother posting these stories on AO3 anymore? Asking for a friend.

**CHAPTER 8:** I'm a Little Teapot

**. . .**

"Oh God, yes. Right there. Mmm, that's the ticket. Now do it hard— yessss. Sweet Lord, woman, you got magic fingers."

Since childhood, Amanda had hated having her feet touched, whether it was by the salesman at Shoe Carnival trying to rope her mother into another pair of school shoes for her little darlings, or by her own baby sister, who had none of the same reservations about lower extremities and always tried to tickle Amanda's feet under the covers. As an adult, she'd avoided foot rubs from her boyfriends (what was with men and their attraction to women's feet, anyway—yuck), claiming everything from fallen arches to bunions, in the hopes of scaring off any unwanted admirers.

But now there was Olivia. And where Amanda—or her feet—were concerned, Olivia could do no wrong. It might also have something to do with the second-trimester swelling that had turned Amanda into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from the ankles down. Or should she say _cankles_? Whatever she called them, they hurt like hell, and nobody was as good at taking away her hurt as Olivia Rollins-Benson.

The captain circled her thumbs firmly into the ball of Amanda's foot, currently propped on a pillow in her lap like some kind of royal canine, and quirked her lips at the orgasmic moan Amanda unleashed. "You come?" Olivia asked, one eyebrow aloft. The dry delivery couldn't mask the affection in her voice or in her strong, dexterous hands. She glided her palm along the back of Amanda's bare calf, massaging lightly on the way down.

"Yeah, think I did." Amanda lifted her head from the headboard she was resting against, peeking out of one eye at her wife. Her very, very pretty and very, very scantily clad wife. She tried to remember if Olivia's pajamas had always been as sexy as the pink satin shorts and camisole, which clung appetizingly to her breasts, the sweet smiling buds at each peak prominent under the fluid material—and she couldn't recall. It seemed to her that Olivia normally opted for more coverage in early November, and tended not to leave her silky black kimono draped open quite so aesthetically on nights when she _wasn't_ in the mood. But maybe that was Amanda's sex drive talking.

It had been a little out of control the past few weeks, even by Amanda's standards. She wasn't dragging her wife into broom closets at the precinct (yet), but the frequent stirrings in her belly, much more noticeable than they had been with Jesse—and if that was any indication of the new baby's energy level, they were all in for it—weren't related only to the pregnancy.

Thankfully Olivia was still experiencing those sympathy pains she kept denying existed, and her hormones fluctuated almost in perfect time with Amanda's. It would make for one hell of a delivery, but goddamn, the sex was phenomenal. If it continued this way, everything so slick and wide open, the kid might just slide right out on her own, anyway. Like the Slip 'N Slide Amanda and Kim used to play on in their childhood backyard.

"Bet I could do it again if you move them hands a few inches higher," Amanda purred, glancing down at the calf Olivia was kneading. The captain could bat those innocent brown eyes as much as she liked, but her hands had definitely started to creep farther up Amanda's legs.

"My, you certainly know how to charm a girl," Olivia said, palms warming the bend in Amanda's knee, voice warming . . . other places. She leaned forward, displaying her own considerable charms beneath the deep V of her camisole. Between her velvety voice, the silk and satin jammies, and all that lush, golden skin, she was an abundance of the finest materials, and Amanda suddenly craved to be wrapped up in nothing but Olivia. "Why not just cock your legs apart and announce you're open for business?"

"Really? Would that work?" Amanda pretended to contemplate the suggestion, then giggled when Olivia swatted lightly at her parting thighs. It was more of a caress than a reprimand, and it unfurled a pleasant heat in her groin. The delicious tendrils quickly spread throughout her body, running wild as ivy, overtaking every nerve, muscle, and organ in its path. She half expected to look down and see the vines encircling her arms and legs.

But no, there was only Olivia: her hands, breasts, hips, mouth. So much lovelier than any overgrown or tended garden, so much sweeter than all the flowers therein. Amanda longed to reach out and pluck her, bring her in for a long, decadent whiff.

"Dirty girl." Try as she might, Olivia couldn't conceal the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Slowly, she got to her hands and knees, the pillow tumbling from her lap, the robe slipping from her shoulders, and prowled up the mattress until she was above Amanda on all fours. "What am I gonna do with you?"

Amanda cocked her head thoughtfully, her fingers trickling up and down Olivia's sides, inching the camisole higher and higher with each upstroke. "Hmm. Spank me? Give me a good tongue lashing? Eat me out like there's no tomorrow and I'm your last meal on Earth? You have options, is all I'm sayin'." She whisked off her wife's pajama top with one last graze of the fingers, feigning surprise as it wafted down Olivia's extended arms and landed on Amanda's chest. Oopsie.

"Adequate punishments all," Olivia conceded, her signature smirk now in place. She dipped down to rumble in Amanda's ear, the full weight of her breasts settling with her, plump and fragrant from the lotion she'd rubbed on, post-shower. Something mouthwatering that smelled like black cherry. "But what if I just want to spoon you and fingerfuck you from behind while you soak my thigh? How's that sound, my love? Strike your fancy?"

Oh, it struck Amanda everywhere. If all the blood in her body hadn't already been flowing to her pelvic region, it sure as hell was now. And, boy howdy, that building pressure was more than just a uterus full of baby. "Fuck yes," she said, not the least bit surprised—or ashamed—that it came out a mere squeak. "Let's do that. We can do the tongue stuff after."

Olivia chuckled, and even that was a turn on, the sound low in her chest, her breasts swaying with heavy, enticing fullness. "Well, some of it," she said, and leaned in for a slow, passionate kiss with plenty of tongue stuff. She was in just the right position for Amanda to slide her cute little short shorts down, palms coasting along the sinuous curve of her ass as they pushed back the waistband.

No panties. Best wife ever.

Making a show of discovering herself completely naked once she nudged off the shorts, Olivia sat back demurely, hair cascading over one shoulder in waves that tickled the slope of her breast. "It appears I am woefully underdressed." She traced her fingertip along the hem of the oversized NYPD sweatshirt Amanda was wearing as a nightie. It had originally belonged to Olivia herself, although it was a size or two large for her as well. She had looked adorable lounging in it around the apartment, but it smelled like her and Amanda loved sneaking it from the drawer or the hamper and snuggling up in it.

Once Olivia saw her in it, the bottom reaching partway down her thighs and the excess sleeves rolled into chunky bracelets at her wrists, the captain had forfeited the sweatshirt entirely. Now it was Amanda's favorite thing to sleep in, sans pants (because her legs got too hot at night, another wonderful symptom of increased blood volume) and sometimes with cozy knit socks scrunched down at the ankles, for that extra adorability factor.

The socks had already been removed by Olivia for the purpose of massaging, and she was currently easing off the underwear that Amanda wore only as a precaution—you never knew what was going to leak out of you during pregnancy—her fingers hooked into the stretched-out waistband. Nothing sexy, just some cotton briefs that would probably fit a small sperm whale, but Olivia shimmied them down Amanda's legs as if they were the skimpiest and sluttiest of thongs. She twirled them on her index finger before slinging them aside.

"And you call me dirty," Amanda husked, stroking every available inch of her wife's baby-soft skin. It was hard to reconcile something so tender and virginal to the fierce, provocative woman before her, but that was just one of the many contradictions she loved about her captain.

"What can I say? You bring it out in me."

Actually, Amanda had begun to suspect that pregnancy was what brought out Olivia's more amorous side, as of late. Ever since Amanda's breasts had filled out (luckily she still had a C-cup crammed into the back of her underwear drawer, leftover from her first pregnancy, and if all else failed, there were always Olivia's bras and duct tape), her waistline gradually expanding with them, she'd noticed her wife eyeing her like a scrumptious late-night snack. More so than usual, that is.

And good Lord, the woman was handsy. There had always been a lot of physical contact between them, but lately, if Olivia wasn't touching her somewhere, Amanda felt vaguely bereft. There was this constant need—a hunger, almost—that only Olivia could sate, and she did it without even having to be asked.

Okay, maybe the pregnancy was affecting Amanda a bit, too. But she was still pretty sure Olivia had herself a little pregnant-lady fetish, or at least a strong attraction, and it delighted Amanda to no end. She would happily fulfill it—just this once, anyway. The OB had more or less warned her that her old ass might want to call it quits on the childbearing front after baby number two. That was fine; she and Olivia had already agreed: at ages fifty-four and pushing forty-two, four kids would officially be their limit.

Thank the Lord neither of them had male equipment, because at the rate they were going, Amanda would be perpetually knocked up.

She snickered into the heated kiss Olivia planted on her lips just then, prompting the captain to draw back with a bemused expression and inquire, "Something you care to share with the rest of the class, little pretty?"

"Nope." Amanda continued grinning, as innocent as you please, playing up the dimple and the blue eyes. And the great big belly, which Olivia was still poised above, ever so careful not to place any pressure against it. Their zucchini-sized baby was trying to kickbox her way out of the domed shelter at that very moment, but Amanda kept it to herself this time. Mama and Mommy's sexy times—not to mention their sleep and their sanity—would be interrupted by Miss Samantha soon enough.

"Just thinkin' 'bout what a lucky damn bastard I am that I ended up with such a hot wife," she added, urging Olivia in to finish the kiss. "With such a hot body, and such a hot, _hot_ —"

Olivia overtook Amanda's mouth with her own, gently at first, but steadily more persistent. A heady feeling, not unlike puffing on a joint, spread from Amanda's head to her toes, and she gave a blissed out little sigh when Olivia paused for a breath and nipped at her bottom lip. "Sit up then, you lucky damn bastard," the captain murmured, and pecked the spot on which she'd feasted. "I wanna see _my_ hot wife's hot body and all her hot, hot . . . "

She caught the front of the stolen NYPD sweatshirt and tugged, coaxing Amanda to sit up straight instead of reclining on the pillows and headboard. It was a frisky start, but she lifted the sweatshirt in a slow, sensual sweep that fluffed Amanda's hair around her bare shoulders. The blonde locks had been particularly luxurious recently, and Olivia was particularly enamored of them, as evinced by the dazzled look in her dark brown eyes. She appeared to have just happened upon a breathtaking waterfall in the wilderness, or perhaps a treasure trove of gold coins, hers for the taking.

Must have been the latter, because she sifted her fingers into the strands from underneath, fisting them lightly and close to the scalp, and pulled Amanda in for the longest, deepest kiss yet, as if she were greedily gathering handfuls of riches to line her pockets. Nonexistent though the pockets were.

After a while she eased Amanda back toward the pillows and separated herself from the make-out session a little at a time, dotting soft warm sucks to the neck and shoulders below. When she reached Amanda's breasts, she nuzzled them gently, cupping one and then the other as she offered sweet, loving strokes with her thumbs, lips, tongue.

"Pretty," she sighed, tracing the areola around Amanda's nipple, which was much pinker and poutier than usual. She strummed it with the backs of her fingers, for a rippling effect that went up and down Amanda's spine as well.

When Olivia brought the nipple to her mouth, taking it between her teeth as delicately as a bonbon—Amanda thought of chocolate-covered cherries and the gooey cream that spilled out when you bit into them—the shudders intensified. And with each caress of Olivia's tongue, the shudders became more of an all-out vibration. Now Amanda knew how a rocket must feel, waiting to be launched into space.

Houston, we have liftoff, she thought, as Olivia tapered off at her breasts, still dotting kisses as if saying goodbye to a lover from whom she couldn't bear to be parted, and patted Amanda on the hip. "Turn on your side, love," she instructed, a helping hand at Amanda's elbow, then back, to assist in the ordeal that was rolling over with a bowling ball strapped to your abdomen. She settled in behind Amanda, flush against her backside, a thigh fitted firmly between her legs, and a palm cradling her belly. "Comfy?"

"Mmm." Amanda nodded. Very.

"Good. Because I am about to—"

Whatever Olivia was about to do—something naughty, if the way she sank her teeth into each of those words was any indication—went unspoken when Samantha planted a foot or an elbow or a pogo stick sharply in the center of Mama's belly, and directly into Mommy's palm.

"Oh," Olivia said, abruptly. She eased off the bump for a moment in surprise, but cautiously slid her hand back into place when Amanda caught her by the wrist. "Oh, she's awake."

"Yeah, she's kinda been doing the Texas two-step in there. Telling ya, this kid's a horndog." Amanda glanced back when her sniff of laughter met with total silence. "Sorry, I should've told you she was moving around. I didn't wanna interrupt."

"No, it's not that. It's just . . . " Olivia nibbled her bottom lip and peered over Amanda's shoulder, gazing down at the bump as if it might suddenly leap at her. "She can hear us now," she whispered, her eyes so wide and serious it was difficult to keep a straight face.

Amanda cleared her throat, stifling a chuckle. Her wife had spent the past few months poring over baby books—dog-earing pages, underlining passages, quoting facts and figures—the way Grandmama Brooks pored over the Bible. Olivia had every milestone of pregnancy, for mother and fetus, memorized down to the week, and probably the exact hour. Lately she'd been obsessing over the fact that their daughter's hearing was developing at a rapid pace. Despite herself pointing out that the fetus could only hear low noises at this stage, she had begun modifying her tone to a soft, soothing cadence whenever she thought Samantha was listening.

"My voice is low," she'd reasoned, while they were listening to their daughter's heartbeat on the doppler for the umpteenth time a few nights earlier. "She might be able to pick up on it. She already hears me in bitch mode at work. I don't want her to get the wrong impression of me."

All said in a voice as gentle as a lullaby.

Yes, it was utterly adorable, but it also saddened Amanda when she really thought about it. How convinced she was unlovable did Olivia still have to be that she worried her own child would come out of the womb disliking her? Yet another reason for Amanda to hate Serena Grace (that name on that woman was a damn oxymoron), but what if Samantha could be that little bit of grace Olivia had never gotten from her mother? The unconditional love that would finally convince her she was worthy? That would be enough for Amanda to give in on the middle name thing.

"Well, even if she can hear us, she can't _see_ what we're doing." Amanda walked her fingers up Olivia's arm, caught her by the bicep, and tugged her in for an over-the-shoulder smooch. She patted the hand Olivia still held to her belly. "This thing ain't got no sunroof, darlin.'"

Though the captain smiled at the joke and the thick Southern drawl it was delivered in, her reluctance remained. "I know, but . . . I don't want to traumatize her. Overhearing can be almost as bad as seeing. And you are rather, uh, vociferous."

Amanda tsked her tongue, but it was a fair assessment. Could she help it if she liked making her enthusiasm known in bed? It was a compliment to the other person, the way belching after dinner was a compliment to the cook. "Babe, she's a fetus. She dudn't even know what a cooter is, let alone what we're doing with ours. I think she'll be okay." She urged her wife's hand lower on what had once been her pelvis but now felt like the side of a giant snow globe.

"Cooter? Well, now I'm turned on."

"You know clinical terms weird me out during—" Amanda whistled two short, sprightly notes in place of _sex_ , and made the accompanying hand gesture. She wasn't quite that squeamish—although words like _vulva_ and _clitoris_ did tend to kill the mood—but Olivia's face was priceless. What the hell did I marry, it asked. "Kidding. Sort of. Look, think of it like this: when I feel good, she feels good. You'll be taking care of both your girls. And the only thing she might overhear is us lovin' each other. That's not gonna be harmful or traumatic."

"True," Olivia said, thoughtful. She kissed the back of Amanda's shoulder, her fingers toying with the pale pubic hair around front. "I do so enjoy taking care of this girl . . . "

"Mmm. And," Amanda said thickly, barely paying attention to what was coming out of her mouth, "if it bothers you that much, we could always put on some music next—"

"Oh. That's a good idea." Olivia's voice brightened from lullaby to about the same tempo as calliope music, and she reached for the nightstand with the long, toned arm that was supposed to be wrapped around Amanda. She couldn't quite stretch far enough to grab her cell phone without squishing Amanda, which was an intriguing prospect most other times, but not with a bellyful of zucchini baby. "Could you hand me my phone, sweetie?"

Heaving a melodramatic sigh, Amanda reached for the cell, missed, and scooted forward to snatch at it, probably resembling a walrus lumping its way across the continental shelf. "Me and my big mouth. And giant ass."

"Oh, stop. Your mouth's not that big." Olivia gave Amanda's backside a playful pinch as it resumed its spot in the warm ladle of her pelvis.

"Ha ha." Amanda assumed a childish pout, solely for her own benefit since Olivia couldn't see it, and reached around to fondle the first available body part she could find: her wife's nipple. She might as well get _some_ action while Olivia grappled with the Spotify app. It might be a—

The seductive, bluesy strains of Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On" suddenly filtered from the captain's iPhone speaker, interrupting the thought. Apparently Olivia really had been listening during Amanda's tutorial of the music app a few weeks ago. It confirmed Amanda's belief that Olivia could understand technology just fine if it was something she deemed beneficial. And it didn't get much more beneficial in the bedroom than Marvin Gaye.

"Wow, babe. I'm impressed." Amanda stroked the underside of Olivia's breast with a lazy and loving touch, then moved on to her soft, smooth tummy. So many delectable places to explore. "You found that lickety-split."

"I made a playlist," said Olivia, depositing the phone somewhere behind her on the bedspread. She cozied in again, tits flush at Amanda's back, with a sigh and a little hum of approval, petting the arm that was hitched around to pet her. A series of lingering kisses imprinted themselves along the ridge of Amanda's shoulder.

"Wait, like a sex playlist? A fucklist?"

"Mm-hmm," was the prim as you please reply.

"Oh my Lord, woman, I love you."

Within minutes, Amanda was repeating the sentiment at a much louder, much heartier volume that no amount of Marvin Gaye or shushing from Olivia could drown out. She had never been more grateful for her wife's long and capable limbs as she was that evening, wrapped up tightly in them, feeling as safe and secure as Sammie must feel in the womb. She had also never been more grateful for the extra blood engorging her nether regions, thanks to the growing fetus. It might be hell on the ankles and feet, but the orgasms were out of this world.

When Amanda ascended to that otherworldly plane, Olivia's ardent kisses and skillful fingers the fuel that carried her away, their daughter could be felt tripping the light fantastic right along with her.

**. . .**


	9. Baa Baa Black Sheep

**. . .**

Okay, it had been funny the first four times, but now it was starting to get spooky. Beautiful, Olivia thought, nudging the pendant back and forth on her palm so that each name appeared in turn, like the rotating survey answers on _Family Feud_. But spooky.

If she didn't know any better, she'd almost believe that she and Amanda had formed some sort of psychic connection as a result of the pregnancy. They had experienced many of the same symptoms in the past seven months, including the first-trimester nausea (Olivia was relieved that had come and gone fairly quickly), the sore breasts (that too), frequent trips to the bathroom to pee in the middle of the night (ongoing), and night sweats (ditto).

Their appetites and libidos were more in sync than ever before. And there had even been a moment at work when Olivia felt a stab of fear while sitting at her desk and instinctually knew Amanda needed her—even though the detective was at the courthouse, and the ER doctor later assured them that lightheadedness during pregnancy was not uncommon. (Olivia scheduled an appointment for a second opinion before they were even out of the hospital parking lot).

Still, despite all the other strange occurrences, opening Christmas gifts and discovering that they had bought each other nearly identical presents was a bit too _Twilight Zone_. There was a handful of unique items: the Snoogle, for instance—a giant C-shaped body pillow for expectant mothers. Amanda had hooted with delight when she unbundled the plush monstrosity. It was ridiculous to be jealous of a pillow, especially one that would benefit both of them, since Amanda's tossing and turning to find a comfortable position had been keeping Olivia awake nights as well. But she disliked not being able to provide that comfort herself, and a very small part of her hated the thought of not having Amanda to hold onto for her own comfort.

At this rate, neither of them would get to reap the benefits of the Snoogle anyway; Jesse and Matilda had promptly claimed it as their own, and were currently trying to ride it like a large, inverted seahorse. Hi ho, Silver, away!

The maternity support belt Amanda had slipped on over her red and green elf pajamas—"I feel like a pumpkin wearing a rubber band," she'd declared, but left the belt in place—had no equivalent among Olivia's gifts, either, thank God. The closest match was a pretty cashmere sweater in mulberry, with a sash at the waistline.

But then came the pregnancy journals, of different design but similar concept—recording all the important and sentimental details of their daughter's prenatal life, which Olivia had already been doing in her regular journal. They had laughed, knowing Olivia would be the one who filled both of these journals out, too. Less amusing, but still cute, were the pajama sets they exchanged: Amanda's, gray striped and made for easy access while nursing, with a matching gown for baby; Olivia's, black silk with white piping, in classic two-piece style.

It started getting really weird when they exchanged boxes of the same size, and opened them in unison to reveal lookalike suede, shearling-lined moccasins. To ease Amanda's aching feet, and to replace the pair Olivia had long ago lost to the cold mountain waters of the Catskills, they reasoned. But Amanda had held hers up by her ears, like excessively large earrings, and announced, "Oh my Lord, get out of my head, you creeper." And, after slipping hers on, Olivia fired right back, "I ordered those while you were still in your second trimester. Who's the preggo creeper now?"

After that: the t-shirts (for Amanda, a vintage-looking top that read "Mama" under a rainbow in retro colors; for Olivia, a knotted tee with rolled sleeves and the legend "Tough as a Mother" across the front). And now, the necklaces. Amanda's was silver—she preferred it to gold—and the first initial of each family member dangled, charmlike, from the length of delicate chain. "A, O, N, J, M, S," she had spelled aloud, and grinned that devilish grin. "Who's Æon James? Why'm I gettin' her necklace?"

Olivia had started to respond that, perhaps all of Amanda's gifts were for Æon and should be returned to her ASAP, but she'd gasped instead, lifting a gorgeous rose-gold necklace from inside the gift bag in her lap. "Oh, sweetheart," she said, draping the chain over her hand to examine the tiny pillar-shaped pendant at the bottom.

For once, she had remembered her glasses and could actually make out the inscriptions on each side of the pillar with minimal squinting. Oldest to youngest, it was each of their children's names in a swirly black script. "Noah, Jesse, Matilda, Samantha," she read out loud, just because she loved the sound of it.

Upon hearing their names, each of the children glanced up (Samantha, or the Little Coconut, as she was presently sized and nicknamed, went on snoozing in her mama's belly), then returned to their new toys and games—and Amanda's pillow—when they saw it was only Mommy getting emotional again. It had alarmed them the first several times she and Amanda randomly burst into tears during the early stages of the pregnancy, but now it was just par for the course.

Olivia wasn't exactly crying this time, although her eyes and voice were a bit misty when she held out the necklace to Amanda, requesting, "Put it on me?" She could have done it herself, but it had become a tradition that whenever one of them gifted the other with jewelry, the giver placed said jewelry on the receiver. She loved that tradition.

"You like it?" Amanda asked softly, though the answer was obvious. Her fingers tickled the back of Olivia's neck as she fitted the clasps together under the bonnet of dark hair Olivia piled atop her head. She kissed the little heart that punctuated the end of Olivia's NYC skyline tattoo; that had become a tradition too. Even so, it still raised goose flesh on Olivia's arms and made her shoulders scrunch up to her ears.

"It's beautiful." Olivia let her hair tumble into place and turned back around to face her wife, claiming a warm kiss on the lips. She ducked down to claim one from the belly too. "I love it. And you, little pretty. Even if you are a big copycat present-idea-stealer-person."

"That's not even a real thing," Amanda countered, rolling her eyes but grinning nevertheless. "But if it was, you better believe I'd be the best  
dam— dang one at it, darlin'."

The kids were too busy with their Christmas haul to notice the slip or the canoodling that took place on the couch for several moments after. Eventually, Olivia lifted her head from Amanda's shoulder, where she had snuggled in to stroke the bump while Amanda played with her hair. She was content enough to fall asleep, but there were still more gifts to open. Maybe she could arrange a family nap after dinner. (This year was just a pre-made meal to pop in the oven and serve, and it was already ten times better than last year's home-cooked disaster, with a side of Beth Anne Rollins.)

"Here, let me put yours on you," Olivia said, reaching for the necklace Amanda had carefully draped over the arm of the couch, in favor of the impromptu cuddles.

"Hold on. Got one more thing I want you to open first." Amanda rummaged alongside the couch, grunting with the effort it took to stretch that far, tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. Just as Olivia was about to ask Noah to help his Ma out, Amanda gave a triumphant cry and produced a lightweight package, about the size of the Folgers K-cup boxes that were a staple in the Rollins-Benson kitchen.

Well, they had been running low, with both women off for the holiday . . .

"Amanda Jo," Olivia said lightly, more affectionate than admonishing. They had agreed on a set amount of presents for each other this year—within a reasonable price range—since they both tended to go overboard in that respect. This one put Amanda over the limit. That was okay, though; Olivia had a little something extra hidden away in the bedroom for later that evening, too.

"Sorry. Couldn't help m'self. I found it online and just . . . go on, open it." Amanda tapped eagerly on the wrapping paper.

Olivia played up her disapproval a moment longer, then tore into the paper, as giddy as their children had been during the Christmas morning hullabaloo which took place not ten minutes earlier and destroyed the living room in that many seconds. When she held the unwrapped box in her hands, she cocked her head and studied the package, a bit perplexed. It wasn't Folgers K-cups, that's for sure.

"It's an SNS," Amanda said, tracing her fingertip under the words _supplemental nursing system_ that were printed on the box. In the upper corner, a dark-haired infant rested on its mother's breast.

"I see that." Olivia smiled indulgently. Poor thing must have gotten a little muddled and ordered something for herself by mistake. The detective's pregnancy brain had definitely been in full swing lately. Yesterday she'd eaten two bowls of cereal for breakfast, forgetting about the first one the moment she poured out the leftover milk. "I think _maybe_ this is for you to use, though, love."

Amanda shook her head and guided the proffered box back to Olivia. "Huh-uh. It's for you, baby."

"But . . . " Olivia glanced down at her chest, back up with a helpless shrug. "I can't."

There were few things she would admit out loud that she couldn't do, and to her great disappointment, breastfeeding was one of them. She had read up on inducing lactation through manual stimulation and herbal supplements, and there had been a brief moment of euphoria when she thought, perhaps . . .

Then reality had set in. Who was Olivia kidding, she was too old to breastfeed a baby. If she'd tried at first with Noah, that might have worked. But a woman in her fifties had no business lactating—it would be like trying to wear a skirt meant for a twenty-year-old. And what if it interfered with Amanda's feedings or her ability to connect with their daughter? Olivia wouldn't do that to her wife or her child. She already felt selfish enough experiencing the pregnancy symptoms when she wasn't even pregnant. Talk about a copycat-stealer-person.

No, there were just some things Olivia wasn't meant to have—her mother's love, a father, a child she bonded with and sustained of her own flesh—and she had made peace with that a long time ago.

Amanda was looking at her with big, searching blue eyes, blonde head tilted in sympathy. As if she knew precisely what Olivia was thinking. She always seemed able to do that, psychic connection or not. "Sure you can. I'll help ya," she said, and looped a lock of hair behind Olivia's ear, though it hadn't been in the way. "Look here. This upside down bottle thing? All's we gotta do is put the milk I pump in that, then you wear it . . . kinda like a breast milk lanyard. And the skinny tube thingies? We just attach 'em to your, uh— to the tips of Laverne and Shirley there, with some medical tape. Milk goes through that like an IV when she suckles. Then you can nurse her too, see?

"Trust me, she ain't gonna complain, as long as she gets fed. And you'll be doing me a big favor, 'cause my, uh— Pointer Sisters almost didn't survive that'un over there." Amanda hitched her thumb at Jesse Eileen, who was gondoliering the Snoogle through waters of discarded wrapping paper, Matilda her ever-faithful passenger.

Somewhere in the middle of her wife's colorful description—censorship of the word _nipples_ had been particularly creative—of how the SNS worked, Olivia had very quietly and very earnestly begun to cry. It was stupid, weeping over a plastic bottle and some squiggly tubing that was essentially the same concept as a beer bong. But it represented much more than that. Amanda had already given her so many things she hadn't dared hope for, and now, here was another.

 _I once was lost but now I'm found_ , she thought, unable to recall where she'd heard it.

"Baby," Amanda chuckled lightly, drawing Olivia in for a kiss on the forehead. She scrunched the back of Olivia's hair with her fingers, gently scritching scalp. "Didn't mean to make you cry. But I think they're happy tears, yeah?"

Olivia nodded, allowing her wife to dry her cheeks without attempting to hide her emotions or glance away. No need to hide her heart anymore. It was safe in Amanda's hands. "Very."

"And you'll help me feed our baby girl? Even if it's two in the mornin', I'm snoring like an old grizzly bear, and she's squalling at the top of her lungs? Dogs barking, other kids fit to be tied?" Amanda chucked Olivia under the chin with the side of her knuckle. "Even then, city girl?"

"Well, you paint a vivid picture." Olivia laughed, swiping her own knuckle under both eyes to gather the remaining moisture. "But yes. Even then. Nothing would make me happier. Except . . . "

Amanda's grin faltered slightly. "What?"

"Except maybe this." Olivia leaned in and pecked the blonde square on the tip of the nose. "There. Perfect."

"Dork. I love you."

"I love you back."

**. . .**


	10. Star Light, Star Bright

**. . .**

" _Dork. I love you."_

" _I love you back."_

They were cuddled up together under Olivia's new, impossibly soft sherpa throw ("Peach from your peach," Amanda had said, of its frail blush color. "Gotta keep my lady warm"), watching the kids romp and giggle amid a wonderland of whirring, beeping toys reminiscent of the Whoville bacchanalia from _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ , when Amanda asked, "Think we should tell them now, before they wear themselves out too much to appreciate it?"

Olivia's hand rested at the undercurve of Amanda's bump, but it was her own belly that fluttered at the mention of the final gift they had set aside for the kids. She always got a little nervous when there was a chance of being rejected by someone she loved.

Then a faint quiver beneath her palm, no more tangible than a tiny, skimming fish, reminded her that some chances were worth taking. "Yeah, let's give them the good news," she said, patting Samantha a few more times before sitting up to grab the decorated gift box from the coffee table. Might as well save Amanda the trouble of trying to excavate herself from within the depths of the couch. She shook the box back and forth, checking that the envelopes were still inside, even though she'd put them there herself, and no one else had touched the present since.

 _Just breathe, Captain_.

"Hey, you wily varmints," Amanda said to the kids, rescuing Olivia from being the one who pulled them away from their fun, "get your tails on over here. Mommy and I have something important to tell you. Come on, shake a leg. Your toys'll be there when we're done."

The kids groaned—except for Matilda, whose compliance and willingness to follow rules both pleased and concerned Olivia; the three-year-old happily took up her usual spot on Olivia's lap while the other two trudged over to the couch. Jesse got a laugh from her siblings and a roll of the eyes from Amanda when she hobbled up on one foot, the other leg, skinny and knobby as a string bean, shimmying wildly. It looked like she had a wet pant leg she was trying to flap dry.

"Jesse, what on earth are you doing, child?" Amanda asked.

"You said to shake a leg." The little blonde flashed a big, dimpled grin and seated herself next to Noah on the coffee table.

"Now you know what I've been dealing with for the past ten and a half years," Olivia teased when Amanda heaved a world-weary sigh and looked to her for backup.

"Oh, come on, I ain't that bad."

"Well . . . "

Amanda poked Olivia in the ribs, making her squirm and dodge from the touch, though she shielded Matilda more than herself. "Well, nothing. You were crazy about me from the moment you laid eyes on me, admit it. Thought I was the cutest thing you ever did see."

True, although to be honest, the cuteness had worked against Olivia's feelings about the little Southern belle, Detective Rollins, in the beginning. It was hard to take the accent, the youthful appearance, and the eager-beaver attitude seriously, especially after witnessing time and again how quickly SVU ate up such people and spat them back out.

At least Olivia had told herself that was the problem. Never mind that three years prior to Amanda's arrival at Manhattan SVU, Olivia had worked alongside FBI Agent Lauren Cooper, another cute, young, ponytailed blonde with a lot of ambition and a reckless streak. Worked alongside her, trusted her, opened up to her, then watched her blow her own brains out less than four feet away from where Olivia was standing. Never again on my watch, she'd promised herself after that horror show. Never.

Soon after, those feelings had gotten mixed up with the PTSD from being assaulted ( _raped_ , Amanda would no doubt interject) at Sealview, being stabbed in her own home, and delivering her partner's baby after a near-fatal car crash. A shit year all around. Then Elliot walked away like she was nothing.

It was a wonder she had ever let Amanda in at all. Only took me about eight years, she thought, smiling back at her impishly grinning wife. And look what I would have missed.

"Yeah, you were pretty cute, I'll give you that," Olivia said, then smoothed her hand over the support belt still enveloping the baby bump. "You _have_ filled out a little since. No offense . . . "

In a perfect imitation of Amanda just seconds earlier, Jesse heaved a deep sigh, with every fiber of her six-year-old being. "Are you guys gonna have another baby or something?"

Olivia and Amanda snapped to attention at the same time, gazing at their daughter like she had announced her plans to drop out of first grade at Midtown West and spend a summer backpacking around Europe. "What?" they asked.

"Y'all are being weird again. And last time you made us sit down to talk, you said you were pregnanced—"

"Pregnant," Noah corrected.

"Yeah, that." Jesse pointed at her big brother, then turned the sharp little finger accusingly on Amanda's belly. "And that was a million years ago, but there's still no baby. And Mommy told us all about how them things are made. I think you and Mommy had sext—"

Noah turned roughly the same shade of red as the Santa hat he was wearing, and mumbled under his breath, "Sex."

"Yeah, you had it and now Mommy's pregnanced, too." With that grand conclusion, Jesse folded her arms firmly and stared down her mothers as if she had, in fact, caught them going at it that very moment.

Oh Lord, Olivia thought, before Amanda even said it.

"Oh Lord," Amanda said.

The "sext" talk had admittedly been vague and rushed, covering just the basics: penis, vagina, sperm, egg—tada, baby! And that happened months ago, only because Jesse would not stop asking questions about the lesson on body safety (and the subsequent anatomy discussion) Olivia had given the kids back in September, after the incident with Jesse's little school chum Jillian.

Olivia would have preferred to wait a few more years before teaching her children anything about sex—even though she'd kept the focus on reproduction and not recreation—but they were growing up so fast. Apparently Miss Jess was already an expert in the field.

"You have baby, Mommy?" Matilda asked, twisting around to gaze at Olivia with wide blue eyes. The contrast of her coppery red hair and ivory skin made them appear even wider and bluer. She reached down to pat Olivia's belly. "In there?"

"No, lovey." Olivia took the toddler's dainty hand and lifted it to her lips, kissing the back like Matilda was one of the Disney princesses she so dearly loved. "Mommy's not having a baby. Just Mama. Your big sissy is a bit confused."

"Hold on. If you're not pregnanced," Jesse said, waving that index finger in the air again, this time in Olivia's direction, "who is? Is Mama having the other baby too? Are they twins?"

Amanda groaned as if she had gone into premature labor, her head lolling on the back of the couch. "Jesse Eileen. No one is pregnanced— pregnant! I mean . . . I am, but there is no other baby. There's only one, and she's the same one who's been in me, eatin' my food and keepin' me awake all night, for the past seven months. Get that 'other baby' outta your head, girl."

"Well, if there is no other baby, why did you make us come over here?" Jesse flung her arms wide, then let them flump into her lap. Olivia would take credit for the pointing and the talking with her hands—habits she suspected were passed down from Serena, who had been an emphatic lecturer, in and out of the classroom—but that arm thing was all Rollins.

Hand over her face, Amanda gave a pitiful whimper that rivaled even Frannie begging for another Milk-Bone. "I can't. You deal with her, babe," she said, wagging her other hand limply from Olivia to Jesse. "She gets this from you, anyway."

Chuckling at her wife and eldest daughter's banter, which had become even more farcical since Jesse turned six-going-on-seventeen, Olivia tucked Amanda's errant hand against her thigh and brought forth the gift box to place in Matilda's tiny lap.

The present wasn't much larger than the 8x10 documents it contained, and too flat to be mistaken for any of the more outlandish requests on the kids' Christmas lists to Santa (Noah wanted a nutcracker, but only if it was life-sized like the one in _The Nutcracker_ ; an antique steamer trunk for Jesse, for God only knew what purpose; and darling Tilly still held out hope she might get her horsey, from last year's list). Nevertheless, it was better to avoid confusion, especially when Jesse was involved.

"So, guys, Mama and I have one last surprise for you," Olivia said, nervously smoothing her fingers along the Fair Isle printed box top. Her heart gave a small pang—a sweet sort of pain—when Matilda's hands came to rest on the backs of hers, calming the involuntary movement. "Now, it's not something to play with or draw on or anything like that—"

"Is it a book? It's not more socks, is it?"

"Jesse, your mommy is talking," Amanda warned lightly. She lay a hand on Olivia's back, buffing her fingernails side to side, up and down. Her back scratches always helped Olivia to relax, often to the point of putting her to sleep. Yeah, an after-dinner nap was definitely in order.

"Sorry, Mommy."

"It's okay, sweet girl. And no, it's not a book or socks. Actually . . . " Olivia cast a preparatory smile over at Amanda, took a deep breath, and removed the lid of the box. She gathered the envelopes from inside, each with one of their children's first names printed neatly in the corner, and passed them to their respective recipients. "It's a piece of paper, but a very special one. Go ahead and open them—try to be careful."

As she helped Matilda slide the document out of the envelope while the older children did the same with theirs, Olivia continued: "Remember when Mama and I took you three to talk to the judge about us adopting each other, so we would all have legal rights as a family and share the same last name?"

Three heads bobbed in unison, two of them bent over the complicated script and embossed seals on the thick linen paper, diligently reading; Matilda was still learning the alphabet, and simply puzzled over her copy. She pointed to the I, T, and A in "Certificate," letters that coincided with the ones in her name.

"Well, the court finally granted us permission earlier this month, so now it's official. We'll be legally recognized as a family now, and nobody can take that away from us."

Olivia felt like a bit of a heel for leaving out the part where the process had taken so long because Declan Murphy was nowhere to be found, after months of dead-end leads, out-of-service calls, and unanswered newspaper ads, and she'd finally agreed to requesting that his parental rights be terminated. Judge Linden was only too happy to oblige, after learning that Murphy had never been in contact with his daughter.

Olivia's daughter.

No one—not Murphy, not Sheila Porter, not even goddamn Beth Ann Rollins—could ever again say her children were not hers. They would have to go through Olivia Rollins-Benson first, and she had it on good authority that was a formidable task.

"Noah Porter Rollins-Benson," her son read aloud, experimentally. He held up his slip of paper like he was admiring a framed work of art, and gave it an approving smile.

"That's right," Olivia said, bolstered by the little boy's reaction. She looked hopefully to Jesse, still studying her gift with a critical blue eye. "They're your new birth certificates, and see? Now they have your full last names on them." She pointed to each of the names on the certificate she held, sounding them out for her youngest child. "Matilda Janice Rollins-Benson."

"Me?" Tilly asked, glancing up at Olivia. She beamed at the responding nod. "Me!"

"Well, Jess?" Amanda prompted after a long silence, during which the six-year-old frowned at her birth certificate as if it were covered in calculus equations. Amanda stretched out one of her legs, or "ham hocks," as she'd recently dubbed the thicker than usual limbs, and tapped Jesse's knee with her moccasined foot. "What do you think?"

The little girl stifled a sigh. "It's good, I guess."

"You guess?" Olivia heard the anxious note in her voice, and Amanda must have too—she resumed raking her nails gently over Olivia's back. "What's wrong, bug?"

"Well . . . I like the first part and last part, but I wanted it different in the middle. I don't like Eileen." Jesse wrinkled her pert little nose, a miniature but otherwise exact replica of Amanda's. "Nobody else has that name. Can we change it to Sally, like Charlie Brown's sister?"

The kids had been watching _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ obsessively since the day after Thanksgiving, and lately Jesse requested the new (as in, sixteen years before her birth) Broadway cast recording of _You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown_ every time she got into the car. Specifically "My New Philosophy," performed by Kristin Chenoweth as Charlie's obstinate little sister, Sally, the role that won her a Tony. Olivia had seen the musical live in '99–adorable show, crap date—and even still had the Playbill with Chenoweth's signature on it . . . somewhere in her extensive collection. One day she would have to look it up and have it framed for her little musical buddy, Jesse.

In Chenoweth's show-stealing number, Sally Brown imagined a confrontation with her teacher, over a D grade on her homework; "Well, why are you telling me?" was the five-year-old's cheeky comeback. Among her other favorite "philosophies": _No!_ , _I can't stand it!_ , and _Oh yeah? That's what you think!_

Jesse Sally Rollins-Benson, indeed.

"Jesse Sally?" Amanda snorted, and nudged the little girl with her foot again. "Why don't we just change your last name to Raphael while we're at it? Get you some big red glasses and your own talk show?"

"Nah. I'll keep Rollins-Benson," Jesse said, with utter sincerity. She considered the name on her certificate for a few moments more, then popped up her head as enthusiastically as any exclamation point. "Does this mean I'm undopted like bubby and sissy now?"

" _Uh_ -dopted," Noah corrected. At eight years old, he already had more patience with his irrepressible younger sister than anyone in the household. In fact, the two were nearly joined at the hip these days, their interests overlapping surprisingly well: Noah loved the dance sequences from Jesse's favorite musicals, and Jesse's scholastic aptitude—there was already talk of letting her skip a grade next year—put them on about the same par academically, especially in math and science.

Olivia hoped that the new baby would share the same close bond with Matilda that the older children had formed. They treated the toddler like the little princess she was, but a three-year-old couldn't quite keep up with a first and third grader. Olivia had spent most of her childhood surrounded by adults, and most of high school trying to compete with the college students her mother preferred to her company; that had drawn her into things she wasn't at all prepared for, emotionally or psychologically. She wanted Matilda to hold onto her innocence for as long as possible. She wanted that for all her children.

"Yeah, peanut, you're adopted by Mommy now, too," Amanda said to Jesse, peering towards the birth certificate as if she were reading Olivia's name from the second parental signature line. She made no attempt to sit forward from her cozy corner of the couch.

"And me and Tilly are adopted by you, Ma?" Noah asked, running a finger down his certificate until he located Amanda's name below Olivia's.

"Yeah, son, you are."

After a glance at her older brother's proud smile and posture, Jesse scooted to the edge of the coffee table and sat up straighter, flashing her own radiant grin. "Jesse Eileen Rollins-Benson," she proclaimed, with a nod of assent. "Okay, I'll keep Eileen, I reckon. Can I go play now?"

Amanda bopped the little girl on the bottom with her foot when she confirmed that the kids could return to their toys. "Listen to her. 'I reckon.' Lord. If I have to be stuck with Jo, she can make do with Eileen."

"I like Jo," Olivia said, sending a flirtatious wink over her shoulder as she gathered Noah's and Jesse's birth certificates from the coffee table, returning them to their envelopes. "And Eileen. At least they're better than Margaret. I used to pretend I didn't even have a middle name, because I hated mine so much. Too old-lady-sounding."

"Aww, Maggie." Amanda glanced sidelong at the kids, making sure they were preoccupied, then lowered her voice to a sultry purr that evoked vivid and enticing memories in Olivia: the sting of bourbon, the shadow of a fedora brim falling over one blue eye, the wicked feeling of total abandon standing outside the apartment door with nothing but a trench coat between her skin and the big bad city, riding her then-fiancée's thigh until she reached pure bliss. "No old lady could do to me the things that you do. Trust me, toots."

Oh yeah, Olivia liked Jo a whole lot.

She placed the kids' birth certificates—officially declaring them hers and Amanda's, forever—on the side table in a neat stack and settled back in beside her wife, content to stay there all day and leave dinner to perish in the oven. It was getting to be tradition, like the putting on of necklaces, and kisses on tattoo hearts. "Whatever you say, doll face," she murmured, snuggling up to Amanda's shoulder and the bump.

"You know what name no one ever complains about having?" Amanda asked, after a few tentative beats. Under the throw, she'd coiled her arm around Olivia's thighs, keeping them tucked snugly against her belly. She tightened her grip a little, as if she expected Olivia to suddenly spring up and run away. "Grace. You, uh, given any more thought to that one as a middle name?"

Olivia had thought about it extensively, one minute loving the idea, hating it the next. She'd turned it over in her mind until the name lost all meaning and didn't even sound like a real word anymore. She had pulled out old photo albums and stared, page after page, into her mother's solemn, fair-featured face, as if she might find the answer there. But Serena Grace remained closed off to her daughter's wants and needs, just as she always had.

"A little." Olivia shrugged

"And?"

"And . . . " Smoothing her hand over the slope of Amanda's belly, Olivia willed their daughter to interject a foot or an elbow, but Samantha already had a mind of her own. The little coconut slept on. "How about— how about we wait and meet her before we decide on that? Let's make sure she's a Samantha Grace before we commit to it, okay?"

Amanda turned her head and pecked Olivia on the temple. "Okay, darlin'. But I'm pretty sure she will be. And just think, her initials will be SGRB. How badass does that sound? Our own little Notori-SGRB. I know how much you love you some Ruth Bader Gins—"

"Aw, crap!" Jesse shot to her feet in the middle of her Christmas bounty, a dismayed expression on her china doll features. She looked like she'd just realized she was late for an important business meeting.

"What the heck, Jess?" Amanda asked, gazing at the girl in bewilderment. Olivia lifted her head from Amanda's shoulder enough to peer at the child too, only mildly surprised by the outburst. Jesse Eileen lived to be dramatic.

"J. E. R. B?" cried their daughter, her skinny arms outstretched in the manner of a destitute street urchin appealing for scraps. "My name spells _jerb_? You have _got_ to be kidding me."

"Don't look at me." Olivia assumed the most blameless expression she could muster, while simultaneously throwing her pregnant wife under the bus; she twitched her head discreetly sideways, until Jesse's keen blue eyes met their mirror image, focusing solely on Amanda. "That was all her."

"Thanks a lot, Olivia Margaret."

**. . .**


	11. A-Tisket, A-Tasket

**. . .**

The tiny brunette snuck another curious glance at the box balanced on Amanda's pudgy knees. She thought she was being subtle, but there were very few subtle things about Daphne Tyler, other than her diminutive size. Sure enough, after one last sidelong gaze and a stagy clearing of the throat, Daphne finally voiced the question that had obviously been simmering in her brain since Amanda had revealed their destination.

"We're not going there to, like, dig her up or something, are we?" she asked warily, sizing up the box as if she thought it might in fact contain a shovel or a backhoe. Maybe a hand trowel. "Because I'm definitely not wearing the appropriate shoes for that."

Despite the January flurries that had recently coated the city in a fine, redemptive powder—even the orgy of beer bottles, pizza crusts, and cigarette butts that littered most corners looked pretty—and against Amanda's strong advice, Daphne had worn a pair of high heels with her cuffed overalls. She looked fashionable, as always, in the black corduroy, striped sweater, matching knit cap, and sable puffer jacket, but she was going to freeze her fashionable little ass off.

Then again, maybe that was Amanda's jealousy talking. She would have resembled an inflatable inner tube in similar attire, and lately she couldn't even see her feet, let alone fit them into a pair of cute heels. For this particular excursion, she'd had to enlist Noah to tie her sneakers just so she could leave the apartment in something other than the moccasins she had barely taken off since Christmas.

If she didn't get this kid out of her soon, she was going to be as big as the ball that had dropped in Times Square a little over a week ago. Amanda and her wife had managed to stay awake long enough to watch it fall and ring in the new year with a long, romantic kiss as they slow danced to "Auld Lang Syne" right there in the living room. Samantha made it the perfect moment with a well-delivered kick that Olivia felt in her own belly, flush with Amanda's, and couldn't stop gushing about for the first several days of 2022.

Amanda supposed if she had to start the year out fat, a pineapple-sized human in her uterus was as good a reason as any. But man, she couldn't wait to meet the kid—and to wear jeans again.

"Yes, Daphne, your hugely pregnant best friend is dragging you out to the cemetery in the middle of winter to dig up her mother-in-law, who's been dead for over twenty years," Amanda said in a flat tone. Her voice was about the only part of her not bursting at the seams these days. Samantha would probably come out sounding like Bea Arthur after listening to nine months of the dry humor. "I thought it would be a fun girls' day out, especially when we get arrested for desecrating human remains."

The cab driver didn't say a word, but his eyes flickered to the rearview mirror once or twice, then back to the road ahead. They were in New York City, he must have overheard stranger things than a pregnant lady and a little pixie discussing grave robbing before.

"My goodness, we are in a mood." Daphne reached over to poke at the container, as if she thought there might be a live rodent inside. She snatched her finger back quickly, nose crinkled. "Seriously, not to go all Brad Pitt on you, but what's in the box? 'Cause if it's a human head, I'm out. I love you, Mandy Lou, and I will gladly be godmother to your little girl, but I draw the line at severed body parts."

Suppressing a deep sigh, Amanda resituated the shoebox on her knees—it was the box that had held the cowboy boots from Olivia on her last birthday, and it was too large to fit in her lap. Actually, the only thing that fit in her lap at present was her gigantic baby bump. She supposed she did owe her friend an explanation, though.

She hadn't invited Daphne out to lunch under entirely false pretenses; Olivia wanted to be there when they asked their friend to act as Samantha's godmother, but the poor thing had caught a nasty cold at work and was self-quarantining to protect Amanda and the kids. Amanda felt guilty taking advantage of her wife's absence—during which Daphne had bawled like her goddaughter's mothers were already dead, and accepted the honor at once—but this was something she needed to do on her own. With her best friend as an alibi.

"No, Daph, it's not a human head. I keep those in jars in the basement. Less mess than cardboard." Amanda drummed a rimshot noise against the box lid with her index fingers. The cab driver's eyes flicked from the road to the rearview and back again. Amanda lowered her voice as she continued. "It's just some . . . personal effects. Pictures and stuff. I've, um, I've been really angry at Liv's mom lately. For the way she hurt—"

She folded her lips tightly, catching herself about to say too much. Olivia and Serena were frequent topics in Amanda's therapy sessions with Dr. Hanover, but it wasn't Amanda's place to reveal her wife's abusive childhood to their friend. It was bad enough that she'd slipped and mentioned it to her own mother. "Just . . . for how she treated Liv. And there's not anyplace for the anger to go, since Serena's, y'know . . . "

"Dead."

"Yeah. So, sometimes I . . . " Throat catching, Amanda gazed down at the box lid, unable to admit the next part out loud while looking anyone in the eye. "I end up taking it out on Liv. Which is so— it's just so damn unfair, Daph. So, my, uh— my therapist suggested I go talk to Serena. Like, have it out with her, finally. The way Liv and I got to have it out with my mama last Christmas."

Amanda forced a light laugh and tapped the box top again. Her nervous knee jiggling, subdued by the extra weight she was hauling around in her legs, seemed to have migrated to her fingers. "Hanover said to bring visual cues, kinda like a pissed off version of Show and Tell. Stuff to leave behind so I can feel like I . . . I dunno, exorcised the Serena demon, or whatever. It's dumb."

"No, it's not. It's a cleansing ritual." Daphne nodded sagely. She had become Amanda's second biggest cheerleader where mental health was concerned (Olivia, of course, was the first). If Amanda's therapist told her to walk backwards and quack like a duck, Daphne would be there to clear the path for Amanda to waddle on through. And to tease her every step of the way. "Like that episode of _Friends_ when the girls burn stuff from their ex-boyfriends."

"Oh Lord," Amanda scoffed, though she knew precisely which episode Daphne was referring to, and could probably quote half of it. "I created a monster when I told you to binge that show."

For the rest of the drive to Cedar Grove Cemetery, Daphne could be heard humming "I'll Be There For You" under her breath. The cabbie eyed her and Amanda suspiciously when they finally came upon the plot where Serena resided—the location was featured on the death certificate that Olivia kept filed away in a neatly organized expandable folder, with other important papers, like the kids' birth certificates—but he agreed to wait for their promised return.

"You can wait in the cab, too," Amanda repeated to her friend, who scooted across the backseat to join her, rather than circle behind the vehicle. Daphne was still leery about cars, after being chased down by one and left with a permanent disability. Didn't stop her from wearing heels in winter, though.

The clerk shut the cab door behind them, planted her cane on the asphalt that wound through the graveyard like candy cane swirls, and looped her arm through Amanda's. "No way. You see how that guy was looking at us after I mentioned digging up bodies? He'll probably drop us off at Bellevue on the way back."

"Psych or prison ward?" Amanda asked, snickering.

"They'd take one look at you and ship you off to some birthing room. Meanwhile, I would go straight to the booby hatch, and as appealing as that sounds—"

"I can still walk, you know," Amanda grumped, only mildly annoyed that Daphne kept pausing to help her step over curbs and clumps of dead leaves frosted with snow. She should be the one helping Daphne, not vice versa. She wasn't the delicate pregnant lady everyone made her out to be. Why, if they didn't have a cab waiting with the meter running, she could probably sprint the whole cemetery without getting winded . . .

Okay, maybe not, she thought when they reached the appropriate row of headstones, and she realized they still had to trek to the very end to reach Serena.

"I know, but when I trip and fall in these heels, I wanna land on you." Daphne tittered one moment, then tottered the next, nearly fulfilling her own prophecy. Her cane wobbled in the grass that crunched underfoot, but luckily—for both of them—it held. "More padding."

"Sure, make fun of the pregnant lady for being fat. That's like me making height jokes while you're— oh wait, never mind, I forgot you're just short."

Amanda left her short, playfully pouting friend behind on a stone bench a few yards from Serena's grave, at least giving herself the impression of privacy for what was bound to be an awkward and very one-sided conversation. ("Don't take no shit, Mandy Lou," Daphne called, as Amanda trudged carefully towards her mother-in-law, attempting not to walk over any of the surrounding graves.)

She had imagined an ornate, imposing sort of structure, perhaps slightly off-kilter like a listing drunkard, her idea of what Serena Benson had been in life somehow translating to what she would be in death. But the headstone was small and almost plain, elegant in its understatedness. Of course—Olivia had been the one who picked it out, at the tender age of thirty-two, on her own and once again cleaning up the mess Serena left behind.

The legend _Beloved Mother_ , bold and set apart in its own eye-catching relief, preceded even the woman's name, like an honorific: Professor, Lady, Her Honor, Beloved Mother. One last attempt to portray Serena as the strong, loving parent Olivia had always wanted. Had always deserved. Interesting that the name _Grace_ appeared nowhere within the etching, though.

Someone had left a paperback copy of _Jane Eyre_ propped against the side of the stone, and Amanda puzzled over it for a moment. She recalled Olivia referencing the novel from time to time, and she'd gathered that it was a favorite of the captain's and her mother's, but as far as Amanda knew, Olivia had not visited the gravesite in almost two years. The book, though bloated from moisture, its pages the color of parchment and curling in on themselves, was still fairly intact. It hadn't been there for more than a couple of months, she was willing to bet.

 _Dammit_. Not bet. The thought snapped Amanda out of her Brontë-inspired reverie—despite her inadequacies as a mother, Serena had apparently been a decent friend and teacher; she must have made an impression on a student or fellow professor somewhere along the way—and she started forward haltingly, as if to shake the hand of a woman who wasn't there.

"Hey. Um, I'm— my name's Amanda," she said, cringing to hear it out loud, here in a wintry graveyard, with no one else around. (Daphne had her nose buried in her cell phone, though she was probably straining to pick up on every word, bless her heart.) Good Lord, this was dumb. But Amanda's determination to put the dead woman to rest and free herself and Olivia from the specter that loomed over their relationship won out over her desire to leave. "I guess I'm your daughter-in-law. I don't know what they call it in the afterlife or . . . wherever you are."

Amanda toed the brittle, snow-glazed grass below, as if indicating she had a vague idea of the direction Serena's soul had gone postmortem—and it wasn't up. "Sorry, bad joke. Anyway, I just realized this might be the first time you're finding out your daughter's bi and married to a woman, so . . . surprise? I'd rather she told you, but you didn't exactly give her many reasons or opportunities to open up to you, huh?

"That's why I'm here, actually. To tell you how much you suck and what you're missing out on. And you know what, I don't give a crap if it's not fair that you can't speak up and defend yourself, 'cause, lady, there ain't no excusin' what you done. And it's your own fault you are where you are now." Amanda switched the box she was holding to the opposite hip, pinning it there with her arm. Okay, once she got going, this might not be so difficult after all. In fact, it might just feel pretty damn good.

"Look, I know you went through some bad shit—I get it, I really do. You survived something awful and didn't have the resources you needed to help you recover, but so what? Awful things happen to people every day, and it's not fair, but that's life. You gotta keep going. You don't just give up and become an alcoholic who beats her kid and sexually abuses her.

"Yeah, you heard me." Amanda pointed accusingly at the engraved name on Serena's headstone and leaned in as she would have were they arguing face to face. "Maybe you didn't do it to her yourself, but you let other people get away with it, and that's just as bad. 'Thanks for warming him up for me, hon'? And _forcing_ her to be examined against her will? I mean, what the fuck, you evil bitch?"

The last part was louder than Amanda had intended, but Daphne kept her head down, reading so furiously it was a wonder her phone screen wasn't steaming in the cold January air. Still, Amanda dropped to a low but fervent tone. "You know what you set her up for? Years of abuse and assaults, one right after the other. You warmed her up and sent her off into the arms of a statutory rapist. You normalized it until she can't even tell she's being mistreated half the time. Or worse, she thinks she deserves it, because you made her believe she's a mistake. Like she's responsible for what happened to you.

"And the thing is, in spite of all that? All that hell you and me and the rest of those shitty bastards put her through? She's a better person than you ever were. She didn't turn into a mean-ass drunk who slaps her kids around and blames them for how they were born." With a disgusted grunt, Amanda bent down and set the shoebox of mementos heavily atop Serena's marker.

"Jesus Christ, why didn't you just give her up for adoption if you didn't want her? Hell, it was the sixties, you probably could've sold her to some rich family on Park Avenue and nobody woulda said boo. Could've made yourself a real chunk of change off a pretty little baby like that. But I guess you preferred having her around as your punching bag, that it? She told me how you choked her unconscious that time. Chased her around threatening to carve her up with a broken bottle, too."

Amanda sneered at the words _Beloved Mother_ , suddenly glad she hadn't brought along to this confrontation any implements capable of defacing granite. "Same kinda shit my daddy did to my mama when I was growing up. I saw it happen firsthand, so yeah, I know all about your kind. People who think life handed them a raw deal, so they gotta make everyone else suffer right along with them. You're just like him. Hollister, I mean. Bet if you'd asked him why he was raping all those women, he'd have given that same tired old excuse. Somebody hurt me, so I'm just paying it forward. God, you're all the same.

"Wait, no, you're worse. 'Cause you chose to hurt your own kid, not some stranger or an adult who could fight back. Make you feel good putting her through the same kinda hell you went through, and worse? You like seeing her cry and wonder why her own mama didn't love her? Thought you were getting one over on Hollister that way, maybe?" Amanda shook her head, a protective hand against her belly. She thought briefly of Olivia's insistence that their daughter could hear them and, if not understand the words, at least sense the emotions behind them.

For a beat, Amanda regretted involving the baby in this. Just like her daddy, dragging her along on his "field trips" to casinos, the track, pawn shops—anywhere he could make an easy buck, or eat a few hundred more; Mean Dean's little partner in crime. But it was too late to turn back now. She consoled herself with the bullshit theory that her huge winter coat probably muffled most of the anger in her voice.

"Well, the joke's on you, lady. There's never been any part of him in her. She was always yours, and you just threw it all away." Unconsciously, Amanda rubbed the bump beneath her coat, as if her daughter needed soothing. "I think you're the real reason she never carried any kids of her own. Sure, she wanted to do something important with her life, but you scared the hell out of her, too. Made her think she'd pass you or him on to her babies. Made her so afraid of not being lovable, she thought her own kids would hate her.

"She still thinks that sometimes. Great a mom as she is, great a person, and she's still worried it's not enough. 'Cause of some loser who died falling down the fucking stairs." Amanda snorted derisively at Serena's date of death—two weeks before Christmas, naturally—but she could feel herself running out of steam. Some of it was third trimester exhaustion, and some of it was disappointment. It didn't feel nearly as good to hurl insults at her dead alky mother-in-law as she'd hoped. Whatever else Serena had been, she was also the one who had brought Olivia into this world. For that, Amanda would always be thankful.

"And even after all your shit, she still loves you. Good Lord, she's got such a big heart, why couldn't you just—" Letting her gesture at the headstone fall limp, Amanda heaved a weary sigh. Coulda, shoulda, woulda, as that esteemed philosopher Dean Rollins liked to say. "She even . . . she wants to name our kid after you. Just your middle name, mind ya. But I got pissed because . . . because— aw hell, I don't know, because I wanted her to be as pissed off at you as I am. But that's not Liv. She's got more grace than you or I will ever have, so I'm gonna agree to the name. Because it reminds me of her, not you."

**. . .**


	12. Sing a Song of Sixpence

**. . .**

_"She's got more grace than you or I will ever have, so I'm gonna agree to the name. Because it reminds me of her, not you."_

Amanda swiped at her runny nose and flipped the shoebox lid abruptly onto the stone ledge. She hefted the box—it wasn't heavy, but anything she lifted these days required hefting—into the bowl of her arm, and withdrew the handful of pictures she'd printed out at work the day before. "This is our wedding announcement from the paper, which I had to talk her into. I wanted her to know how proud I was to be adding her name to mine. And goddamit, you should've been there. She was the most beautiful bride you ever saw."

Tears filled her eyes at the memory of Olivia's smile that day, never more radiant—and yet tinged with wistfulness, as if she were looking for someone not in attendance. Amanda slapped the newspaper article onto the top of Serena's stone, then selected the next picture in the deck. "This is your grandson, Noah. He's eight years old, and he's pretty amazing. A lot like her, when it comes to patience and thoughtfulness. And he can dance like you wouldn't believe. You could be going to his recitals instead of lying here in the dirt, if you'd just gotten your shit together."

She pressed the picture of her son atop the wedding announcement, and moved on to the next. "This here's my girl, Jesse. She turned six on Thanksgiving. And I say 'my,' but she's just as much Liv's now too. I actually think they're each other's favorite. She treats Jesse like she's been her mama, day one. And Jesse looks out for her like I tried looking out for my— anyway. You would've liked her. She's smart and funny and getting to be a kid in ways Liv and I never did."

Jesse's photo went the way of the first two. "Our youngest, for now," Amanda said, extending the next picture. "Her name's Matilda, but everybody calls her Tilly. And everybody adores her. She's the sweetest little thing I ever— she's what I think Liv would have been like if you'd just loved her and let her be happy. Tilly's daddy was a rapist and murderer who did awful things to Olivia, and the bio mom was his accomplice. But not once have I ever seen that woman look at Tilly with anything other than pure love and devotion. Not a single damn time."

When Matilda had joined her brother and sister, Amanda displayed the final photo in the array: a 3D sonogram from the latest prenatal checkup. It was kind of creepy (while offering a glimpse of the baby's features in vivid detail, it also rather resembled an eyeless fetus sculpted in melting butter), but mostly adorable. Samantha appeared to be sucking on her big toe. "She gets this from you," Amanda had teased Olivia, when the tech was out of the room. "I don't even like feet."

"Hush." Olivia had rested her chin on Amanda's shoulder, grinning enormously as they admired the lifelike rendering of their child. "We both know you're the bendy one. Not to mention your oral fixation."

Amanda smiled to herself for a moment, remembering ( _I do love me some oral_ , had been the response that got them both giggling until the doctor arrived), but it faded when she returned her attention to Serena. "You pro'ly noticed I'm pregnant," she said dryly, rounding a hand over the bump. "You're dead, not stupid, right? Well, this is her. We're naming her Samantha. Samantha Grace Rollins-Benson. Sammie, for short. She's due on Valentine's Day, which is kinda funny and perfect. I been telling Liv not to expect too many other gifts for her birthday and V-day, since I'm growing her a human and all. I don't think she mentioned it was so close to your birthday too, though."

According to the grave marker, Serena had entered the world on February 3, 1948. Olivia had arrived twenty years and four short days later. God, a single mother at twenty years old, impregnated by the man who raped her when she was nineteen. Happy birthday, Serena Benson. Was that why she had mistreated teenaged Olivia so badly? Resentful of everything that had been taken away from her, at not much older?

Amanda still didn't feel sorry for her, any more than she felt sorry for Beth Anne subjecting herself and her daughters to years of domestic violence, or for Mean Dean and the hard knocks he'd taken growing up poor in rural Alabama, learning to knock back twice as hard. One thing she knew about addicts and abusers was that they felt plenty sorry for themselves already. They didn't need it from anyone else.

"Anyway." Amanda hastily pecked the photo of Sammie—her little pineapple-sized princess—before adding it to the rest. She reached back into the box and fished out another slip of paper, this one a photocopy with some of the text and numbers blacked out. "Speaking of gifts. Okay, so, brief recap: that damned expensive watch you gave Liv when she made detective? The Breitling? It, uh, it got smashed last— well, the Christmas before this latest one. It's a long story, but I had the watch fixed and that sorta set off a whole big thing. We fought, Liv and me. I said and did some things that were really awful. I hurt her . . . probably about as much as you ever did."

Amanda scanned the copy of the watch repair bill—her credit card number and personal information were slashed through with permanent marker—but didn't actually see it, as she blinked at the fresh tears that surfaced. She cleared her throat and shook her head, flicking away the bangs that fell into her eyes. Olivia would lecture her something fierce if she found out Amanda was standing outside in the cold without a hat or gloves on. _I have to keep my babies warm_ , she'd undoubtedly say, as if Amanda and Sammie were her full-time job and the captain thing was just a side gig.

"Difference is—" Amanda's voice came out strained, and she cleared her throat a second time. "Difference is, I learned my lesson and I will _never_ do that to her again. I'd sooner lie down here in the dirt beside you than ever lay another finger— than ever treat her so bad again. It's a miracle she even went ahead and married me after that, and I guess I owe some of that to you. If you hadn't made her so tolerant of being abused, I probably would have lost her for good. Thanks for that."

A bitter, mirthless laugh escaped Amanda's lips and she showed the purchase slip to Serena like an upraised middle finger, then slapped it down next to the pictures. She'd been planning a joke about bringing the receipts, but she was too pissed off for humor just then. Not only because of Serena's terrible mistreatment of her daughter, and her cold, cowardly silence now, but because she herself—Amanda, the supposedly fierce and loyal protector—was just as guilty. Olivia had long ago forgiven her (see, grace personified), she didn't doubt that. And Hanover kept encouraging Amanda to forgive herself. Maybe one day she would get there.

Not today.

She plucked the gold medallion from within the box and pinched it between her index and middle fingers, resisting the urge to weave it in and out of each digit, a little parlor trick she'd picked up from her daddy, or flip it like a coin. It was a running joke among GA members, about giving out sobriety chips to a bunch of compulsive gamblers. Labeling them "medallions" and stamping the serenity prayer on the back only got you so far.

"My one-year sober chip," she said, flashing the gold token at the headstone. She had briefly considered bringing a mini bottle of Absolut for her mother-in-law, rather than the chip she'd worked hard earning, but quickly nixed the idea; she didn't want to chance Olivia visiting the grave and seeing something like that. It was cruel, and Amanda didn't want to be cruel anymore. Besides, someone else would probably come along to nick the bottle and nip the booze, anyway.

"I just got it, beginning of this month. My second one. Probably wouldn't have gotten it the first time, if not for her riding my ass. 'Cause she doesn't give up on people, even when she should. You shoulda seen how proud she was of me when I brought this home the other day. That's worth way more than any amount of money I could win. You could've had that too—her pride and support—if you'd just tried harder." Amanda placed the medallion on top of the pictures, then gave the stone a clumsy pat, as if comforting it. There, there.

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry you weren't able to overcome it. I really am. But you had options, at least later on. Or were you so ashamed of the way you'd treated her all those years, you didn't wanna get better and have to face her sober? Yeah, that sounds about right. Better to die and leave her all alone than to tell her you're sorry."

Sighing heavily, she removed the next item from the box: a gold pin shaped like a tiny NYPD captain's shield, complete with laurels and crown. "She got this when she made captain. I doubt she told you about that, either. Maybe you wouldn't have been proud—I know you thought she was wasting her potential or whatever by becoming a cop. But she's done more good and helped more people than you ever would have with your fancy-pants professorship. She literally saves people's lives. People like you.

"I'm not giving you this one. It's hers, and you don't deserve it. I just thought you should know how amazing she turned out, in spite of you." Amanda folded the pin into her palm and tucked it safely inside her coat pocket. She would return it to Olivia's jewelry collection that evening, while her poor feverish wife shivered and tossed fitfully on the couch, refusing to bring her germs to their marriage bed. "Woman's got all kinds of medals and honors and certificates, but she'd never brag to you about any of it. So, I'll do it for her. She's the best damn cop in the city, and if you walked into our squad room right now, she'd work her ass off to make sure you got justice and some kinda closure. Some kinda help.

"I think she still expects you to show up, you know. Not literally, just . . . you in another form, so she can get some of that closure you denied her. But she's never gonna get it, is she? And it's not something I'll ever be able to give her. She'll always just be waitin' . . . "

Feeling herself about to cry again, Amanda inhaled deeply—or as deeply as the pineapple in her belly would allow—and took out the last memento from the shoebox, handling it with care. It would surely crumble, out here in the elements, or be swept away by winter winds, but she had another at home. She wasn't sentimental about too many things, other than her kids, her wife, and their dogs—that which was irreplaceable. You couldn't let yourself get attached to _stuff_ when it might be stolen or pawned out from underneath you. Nevertheless, she loved the faded yellow peony whose petals looked and felt like crêpe paper.

It had been Olivia's idea to preserve the flowers, of course. She was the one who understood the importance of keepsakes; how, even if you couldn't take it with you, it didn't hurt to treasure something beautiful and want to hang onto the memory as long as possible. Her yellow rose had taken on a lovely butterscotch patina that perfectly complemented the elegant, vintage decor of their bedroom. She giggled every time Amanda saw it in the little ring dish atop the dresser and started singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas," usually while attempting to remove the clothes the captain had just put on.

"You know that song is problematic and kind of offensive, right?" Olivia had asked once, trying to conceal her amusement at the twangy rendition of the folksong.

"Well, then you better think of a way to shut me up, little darlin'," Amanda had replied, dodging her wife's puckered lips and belting, "Fooor the yellow rose of Texas beats the belles of Tennessee!"

Gently, Amanda lowered the peony to the headstone and tipped it from her hand like she was releasing it onto the waters of a tranquil pond. "That's one of the flowers she wore in her hair on our wedding day. She loves her pretty little things, and I think maybe she got that from you. I read that peonies can symbolize compassion, so I figured . . . well, she'd have compassion for you, even if I can't. But I'm trying. And this is me promising that I won't ever let you or your _Mommie Dearest_ bullshit—or my own parents from hell—interfere with my and her happiness again."

She had expected to leave it at that, to gather up the shoebox and walk away, probably never to return. But as she tucked the box and lid under her arm and prepared to go, she felt compelled to say something more. Maybe it wasn't only Olivia who needed a little closure. "I want you to know . . . I'll take care of her. Me and the kids—we got this. They make her so damn happy. And I'm never going to let anything else bad happen to her. Not ever. If that's worrying you, wherever you are, and keeping you from finding peace, you can stop now. She's gonna be okay. So, just . . . leave her be, will ya? I'll make sure she gets all the love you couldn't give her."

Amanda gazed at the silent stone a moment longer, unsure what, if anything, she expected. Maybe the engraved letters to swirl and rearrange themselves, a mystical answer emerging from the granite like the fortune-telling triangle in a Magic 8-Ball. Outlook good. Signs point to yes. You can count on it.

Ask again later.

"Um, okay. Bye now," she said, and made to leave again. This time it was a hurtling snowball that stopped her in her tracks. There was no way she could have dodged it, in her current elephantine state, but luckily it wasn't meant for her. She gazed over her shoulder at Serena's marker, the middle letters of her name now veined in white where the missile had hit (ENA BE, it read), and back at Daphne, the thrower.

"Looked like you could use some backup," the little clerk said, smiling wickedly under her floppy knit cap. Her cheeks were as rosy as Rudolph's fabled red nose, and she gave a mighty, vacuum-powered sniff. "I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear. I'm just really good at reading body language. She seems like a stone-cold bitch, by the way."

"Yeah," Amanda said, lacking some of her earlier conviction. She was ready to go home and take care of her sick wife, no matter how much that wife might protest. It was hard to take her seriously, with her pink nose and chattering teeth, her mismatched pajamas and the peach throw blanket she'd taken to wearing like a very large bib. But Amanda would get her stubborn, selfless captain well, even if she had to sit on Olivia to do it. Plump as Amanda was right then, Olivia would surrender in no time.

"Here. Try it." Daphne bent over, propped heavily on her cane, and swiped at the snow in front of her highly impractical footwear. She packed the fine white fluff as best she could between her gloved hands and offered it to Amanda, who grasped her by the arm to help her stand. "You'll feel better."

Amanda eyed the misshapen pellet of snow, momentarily tempted ( _"How can I love someone who was conceived by a monster?"_ ), but resisted the urge to reach for it. She was trying to be the bigger person here, and while it shouldn't be hard, considering the other party was probably just skeletal remains by now, she doubted throwing snowballs at her mother-in-law's grave constituted mature adult behavior. "Nah, I called a truce with her. No sense stirring something up again. She's caused enough trouble for me 'n Liv, as is."

"Oh, come on. Don't make me be the bad guy who threw something at a dead woman. It'll be good therapy, get out some of that mama bear aggression you've got stewing around in there." Daphne wavered the snow under Amanda's nose, as if she were seducing her with a chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven. "Just one? I won't tell. It'll be between us and Serena. And . . . all these other poor, dead schlubs."

"Well," Amanda drawled, gazing furtively at the nearby markers like some of the poor, dead schlubs might pop out from behind them and catch her in the act. An unlikely scenario, at best. "Maybe just one."

By the time they were through, she and Daphne had pelted Serena Benson's headstone with three snowballs apiece. It was the slowest snowball fight in history, with Daphne crouching down after each launch to make more ammunition. Amanda's aim was piss-poor (you try hitting a target while carrying around a pineapple and thirty extra pounds), but she still managed to nail the _Beloved Mother_ epithet right in the kisser. Ironically, the snow interlaced with the etched stone for a pretty gingerbread icing effect. Amanda couldn't help but laugh as they trundled back to the visitors' path, leaving Serena Grace behind.

"Last one to the cab is a rotten inseminated egg," Daphne announced, and set off at a brisk clip when they reached the flatter, drier pavement. Her heels clacked the whole way.

**. . .**


	13. Pop Goes the Weasel

**. . .**

Olivia had a long and complicated history with house slippers. Somehow, she always seemed to ruin her favorite pair, after only a few weeks—months, if she was lucky—of wear. The typical method of destruction was inundation in liquid: milk, blood, mountain stream water, an unfortunate incident involving Frannie and a delayed potty break.

As problems went, this slipper mortality rate was not high on the scale of life-shattering events, but she still stared down at her drenched moccasins in utter chagrin for at least ten full seconds. And another one bites the dust, she thought, fanning out her toes inside the soggy shearling that encased her bare feet. One month and nine days was a valiant run, in any case.

The captain had been present for a good many surprise onsets of labor, and she'd seen women's water break in multiple ways, from the more probable trickle to the tidal wave splash depicted in movies and television. She had helped deliver a baby with her own two hands (and a lot of coaching from EMTs) and she'd talked Amanda into Lamaze classes ("Babe, I already know how to breathe, and this ain't my first rodeo," the blonde initially stated, then relented a second later when Olivia pointed out that it was _her_ first rodeo) to prepare for this moment. She had provided her wife with a perineal massage—and massages of another sort, when Amanda felt up to it—every other day for the past few weeks, and she already had a hospital bag packed and waiting by the front door.

In other words, Olivia Rollins-Benson was loaded for bear.

And still, all she could do was stand there gaping at the amniotic fluid that had doused her moccasins, Amanda's matching pair, and the kitchen's hardwood flooring. Every single preparation she'd made in advance simply up and left her, and it occurred to her that she had yet to secure the new baby's car seat in the back of her SUV, believing she had several more days until it would be needed. Oh God, she was already the worst mother of a newborn ever. She might as well have driven away from the hospital with her daughter in the car seat on the roof, like a forgotten cup of coffee.

Her one consolation was that Amanda was also gaping at the floor as if she couldn't reconcile herself to the idea that the mess had come from her own body. The detective turned a swollen, slippered foot inward and wrinkled her nose, looking as though she had just stepped in a pile of dog dookie. "Shit," she muttered, reinforcing the illusion.

"At least it wasn't on the carpet?" Olivia ventured, and gave a scratchy little giggle. It was possible she was panicking.

When she had offered to make Amanda her famous peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the blonde claimed they were the best PB&Js she'd ever eaten, and they had become the mainstay of her pregnancy diet—as a late-night snack, she had expected to slather twice the normal amount of crunchy peanut butter and a generous glob of strawberry jelly (the secret ingredients) onto some bread, and call it a night. She had not expected to hand the sandwich over to Amanda with a kiss and end up inducing labor.

The baby wasn't even due for twelve more days.

"What the hell, she's not even due for twelve more days," Amanda said, then addressed the bump directly, sandwich held safely aloft. "You're not even due for twelve more days!"

See?

"Okay. Okay, let's not freak out." Olivia gently led her wife away from the puddle, and after giving it a second thought, whipped a dish towel from the stove handle and tossed it over the fluid. So Frannie didn't get any wise ideas. When Olivia tried to rescue the PB&J sandwich next, she found herself losing an arm-wrestling match with one very indignant and stout little blonde. "Sweetheart," she said coaxingly, "come on, let's at least get you into some pants."

Amanda cast a forlorn glance from the sandwich to her legs, bare beneath Olivia's old NYPD sweatshirt. The detective had forsaken pants—underwear included—almost entirely in the past week or two, complaining that even the maternity sizes were too constrictive and uncomfortable. Olivia was getting accustomed to waking with an adorably plump pink backside sticking out at her like an impish tongue. But it was February, and she wasn't taking her wife and child out in the cold without proper attire.

"But I wanna eat my sandwich," Amanda griped, biting off a hearty chunk of Wonder Bread. The resemblance to Frannie, gobbling up whatever food fell on the floor at mealtime before it could be snatched away by human hands, was uncanny. "Ther jus' gunnuf make me turk muh unnerwear off, neeway."

"Well, as much as I love it when you _turk_ your _unnerwear_ off, I am not letting my wife go to the hospital commando. They'll think I can't provide for you, and I'll probably lose my badge and my pension and have to leave the NYPD as a total disgrace. Is that how you want me to go out? The former SVU captain who couldn't keep her pregnant wife in pants?"

Taking advantage of Amanda's riveted expression—although some of it might have been deep concentration, as the detective plied with her tongue at a glob of PB&J stuck to the roof of her mouth—Olivia led her back towards their bedroom, accompanied by the sandwich. Captain Benson knew when to pick her battles.

"They won't fire you just for being a cheapskate," Amanda said with a wet lisp, sounding as if she were impersonating Sylvester the Cat from the _Looney Tunes_ animated series. _Thufferin' thuccotash!_ "And we've got plenty of time. I'm not having contractions yet. Let's wait a few more hours before we go— oh." She halted abruptly, the bread halfway to her lips, a quizzical frown upon her face.

Sufferin' succotash is right.

"Amanda. Did you just have a contraction?" Olivia fixed the blonde with the same look she used on the children and dogs when she suspected them of being less than truthful. It helped that she had just seated her wife on the edge of their bed and could gaze down sternly, hands on her hips.

"Uh, maybe a little one?" Amanda nibbled at the crust of her sandwich, all big blue eyes and innocence. "They've kinda been coming and going since we put the kids to bed . . . "

"Amanda! That was three hours ago." Springing into action like a switch had been flicked, Olivia cleared the room in three long strides and began tearing through Amanda's underwear drawer until she found a pair of voluminous white panties. Parachutes, Amanda had dubbed the maternity briefs, cracking them both up when she opened the pack and aired the billowing cotton overhead.

"I thought it was Braxton Hicks again! I didn't wanna scare you with another false alarm," the detective cried indignantly, tearing off another hunk of peanut butter and jelly. She chomped with her mouth wide open, defiant as a kid who had stuffed too many gumballs into her gob. "Oh Lord, no. Not the Underwear That Ate Manhattan. Liv, you know I hate those."

Olivia snatched a pair of striped drawstrings from the armchair where Amanda habitually discarded her clothes, clean and dirty alike. These pants were freshly laundered, if somewhat wrinkled, and probably wouldn't bring too much shame on the Rollins-Benson family name. "Sweetie, I love you, but you cannot wear a thong to the birth of our child. She'll come out swinging on a tiny little stripper's pole."

That drew a laugh from Amanda, though Olivia quickly shushed it when the blonde made a slightly strangled noise on the peanut butter. Amid further—but weakening—protests, she helped her wife on with the big undies and the baggy pants, dropping apologetic kisses onto Amanda's pale head throughout the exercise. They were both out of breath when it was over, and it took two tries to get Daphne on the phone, after the sleepy clerk mistook the first call for a heavy breather and hung up before Olivia could pant, "Daph, it's time," while simultaneously pouring a glass of milk. She spilled half the jug on the counter and swore under her breath, the phone still pinched to her ear.

"Wow, Captain B, I'm flattered you finally asked, but isn't it kind of inappropriate, what with the little missus in labor and all?"

"Daphne . . . "

"I'm on my way," Daphne sang out on speakerphone, a flurry of tossed clothing and slamming drawers in the background. She barked a shin or some other lower extremity against a piece of furniture, yelped, and kept going. "Tell her to hold it in until I get there. How is she having it already? I canceled all my Valentine's plans for this."

By the time Olivia ended the call and presented Amanda with the requested milk, Daphne was off on a tangent about finding a last minute date for Valentine's Day. Olivia considered telling the clerk that Kat Tamin was still available and still sulking, after their very public falling out at the one-six New Year's Eve party in the morgue. ("Damn," Fin could be overheard commenting to Warner. "Me and my ex don't have nothing on these all lesbians.") But playing matchmaker would have to wait—as would reminding Daphne not to refer to her goddaughter as _it_ —until some other time, when a baby wasn't coming out of Olivia's wife's uterus.

"Does everything feel normal?" she asked, nearly prancing with anxiousness as she watched Amanda polish off her sandwich and drain the last drop of milk in the glass. There had been no convincing the bullheaded blonde not to finish her snack.

Amanda gave a sated sigh and dried her milk mustache on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "Yeah, I reckon. Kinda didn't get a 'normal' with Jess, but it doesn't feel like that, so quit your worryin'. It's gonna be a piece of cake this time, you'll see."

Half an hour later, while Olivia whipped in and out of traffic like she was driving a sleek sports car rather than an SUV the size of a small tank, Amanda's attitude wasn't quite so laissez-faire. She didn't object when Olivia flipped on the light bar on the dash and sailed into the hospital parking lot without stopping for one traffic light along the way. And an hour after that, as she held her belly and groaned through another very real— _not_ Braxton Hicks—contraction, she gazed up forlornly from the hospital bed, demanding of Olivia, "Why did you let me eat that damn sandwich and all that dairy?"

"I'm so sorry, my love," Olivia cooed indulgently, smoothing down Amanda's hair on either side of her head and dabbing her brow with the cool, damp cloth provided by one of the nurses. Best not to mention that there had been no stopping Amanda from inhaling the food and drink like she had a pneumatic tube where her esophagus should be; Olivia had feared losing a hand in there. "Next time, I will body slam you like a cage fighter and force-feed you nothing but ice chips, I promise."

"Okay." Amanda gave a pouty little nod, then seemed to realize what she was hearing, her eyes going almost as wide as her cervix.

According to the doctor, she was making fast, steady progress and would soon be in the "active stage" of labor, as if the last two hours had been uneventful. Obviously he hadn't been present for the peanut butter showdown and Daphne's last-minute panic about sitting three sleeping children and three large dogs (she was accompanied by Hammie the goldendoodle). _I'm just one tiny woman!_ she'd wailed, as Olivia shut the front door, took a deep breath, and bustled Amanda to the car.

"Wait. Next time?" Amanda pointed an accusatory finger at Olivia, at her own distended belly, and back again. "If you think you're ever getting near me with that turkey baster glove thing again, you are crazier'n a June bug, y'hear?"

"Figure of speech, figure of speech," Olivia said hastily, patting her wife's shoulder and exchanging a surreptitious smile with the nurse who buzzed around the room, checking monitors and adjusting the bedding and equipment for Amanda's comfort.

The cheerful little RN was no bigger than Daphne and plenty capable for one tiny woman, but her confidence only assuaged Olivia so much. Amanda's placental abruption while in labor with Jesse had come on suddenly and without the least bit of warning, and Olivia had never forgotten the distress and intense pain in her detective's wan, frightened face. It was similar to how Amanda looked when she got shot—both times. As much as Olivia wanted this to be a joyful and momentous occasion, she couldn't help fretting just a bit.

"Does everything look okay?" she asked the nurse, seeking out her wife's hand among the bedclothes and holding it to her chest. Try as she might to keep her worry in check, her voice was still several octaves higher than usual. "There were complications with her first delivery. And she's not due for twelve— wait, it's past midnight, so eleven. She's not due for eleven more days, and the baby is only watermelon-sized right now. She's supposed to be a pumpkin. Is that safe?"

Amanda made a sound that was part chuckle, part whimper. "Babe, you already asked near 'bout fifteen people that same question. You sound like a deranged Disney princess talking about pumpkins at midnight. I'm fine. Wallowing in misery and bloody show, but fine. And so's the baby. Right?"

The nurse smiled as two sets of anxious eyes looked to her for an answer. "Everything looks great. Mommy's blood pressure is slightly elevated, but that's to be expected under this type of physical stress. Baby is doing fine. She's right at the cusp of full term. If she was going to come early, she picked a good time to do it. I think you've just got an impatient little lady on your hands, Captain Rollins."

That last part was directed at Olivia, who opted not to correct the oversight on her last name. She kind of liked the sound of Captain Rollins, and judging by the dimple in her wife's cheek, even more pronounced with the baby weight, Amanda approved as well. "Oh no," Olivia said fondly, cupping the pudgy, flushed cheek in her hand, "not another one."

"You love it," Amanda murmured, kissing the heel of Olivia's palm.

"Yeah, I kinda do."

"Mind if I take a look?" the nurse asked after a moment. She stood at the foot of the bed, Amanda's blanket poised for lifting.

"Might as well. Everybody else has been snooping around down there." Amanda lolled her head on the pillow, offering the nurse a wan smile. "I'm gonna start chargin' admission."

Olivia clucked her tongue. "Amanda."

"I'll make a note of that in your chart," said the nurse, laughing lightly as she peered under the blanket. She sobered as she reached out a gloved hand, concentrating on Amanda's softening, widening cervix. "Okay, girls, we better up the price on those tickets. Feels like you're at five centimeters, and counting. Contractions are more frequent, I'm guessing?"

"About every five or six minutes," Olivia confirmed, glancing at her watch for approximately the hundredth time in the past hour. She could have kept track without her faithful Breitling, though. Her own abdomen, back, and legs were clenching at roughly the same rate, the cramps severe enough to double-up someone with a weaker constitution—a man, for instance.

Olivia Rollins-Benson was no man, and she'd be damned if she let some imaginary pain detract from the very real contractions her wife was experiencing. But the deep breathing exercises were as beneficial to her as they were to Amanda, and whenever she massaged the blonde's tensed, quivering muscles, she also let herself be soothed by the touch. At least that was the theory.

Then Nurse Judy, who, in that moment, backlit by a decorative sconce on the wall—an attempt at mood-lighting for expectant mothers—looked like an angel sent down by God himself, said the magic words: "Were we wanting to do an epidural then, or are we going all natural?"

"Ha!" Amanda practically shouted the interjection, and propped up on both elbows, only making it that far with Olivia's help. She leaned towards the nurse like she was negotiating a rather shady deal in a back alley somewhere, her canted head the only thing that moved. "Give me the drugs. All of them."

Nurse Judy raised a questioning eyebrow at Olivia, as if she didn't quite trust the word of the bedraggled, sweaty blonde who appeared to be devolving into a feral state with each passing minute. Amanda was somewhere around Biblical wench, and quickly headed for prehistoric woman before their very eyes.

"All of them," Olivia echoed, and resumed mopping the perspiration from her wife's forehead. Epidurals were not without their share of risks, and it made her uneasy considering everything that _might_ go wrong; but Amanda was in pain, that much was certain. If she wanted the drugs, she was getting the drugs.

"I'll let the anesthesiologist know right away," said the nurse. "Sit tight."

"Poor choice of words to use on someone whose hoo-ha is as wide open as an outhouse shittin' hole." Amanda had waited until the nurse stepped out before making the observation, thank goodness. But in spite of the uncouth simile, there was a tinge of humor in her voice. That was a good sign—as long she could still crack a joke, they were doing okay. "Probably have all kinds of weird, flabby stuff hangin' out down there by the time this kid's through with me."

"Wow, I have never wanted you more," Olivia said, dryly.

Fifteen minutes later, when the anesthesiologist still hadn't arrived, the humor had abated, but the contractions had not. Amanda gritted and huffed through the longest one yet—forty seconds—and refused every offer Olivia extended at bringing her comfort, from plumping her pillows to spooning ice chips into her grimacing mouth.

"Only if the chips are made of whiskey," the detective had grunted, kicking fitfully at the bedding and flumping her head back onto the pillows. "Oh Lord, no, here comes another one. Oh shit. Liv, why'd you do this to me? Was this your evil plan all along, to marry and inseminate me so you could inflict this torture? I thought you loved me! Devil woman!"

The pregnancy books and blogs recommended going along with whatever the partner in labor said, and not to take offense if they seemed angry. None of the literature had suggested what to do when your wife accused you of being a supervillain who impregnated women just to be a big meanie.

Olivia pressed her lips together tightly, trying not to laugh. She hated to see Amanda in pain, and her own lower back felt as though a knife was sticking out of it, but the histrionics and Amanda's conviction that she'd wed an evil mastermind were kind of adorable. "I do, sweetie. I love you so much and I'd trade places with you if I could. I'm sorry it hurts so badly. You want me to yell at the nurses? Go all Shirley MacLaine in _Terms of Endearment_ on them? _Give my wife the epidural!_ " She beat her fist at the air, as if she were on a rampage.

That at least got a laugh, albeit a small, pained one, from Amanda. "Yeah," she said weakly, nodding with the sincerity of one of their children requesting that, yes, they check the closet and under the bed for monsters one more time. But she grabbed Olivia's hand before it retreated, preventing her from stepping away from the bed. "Wait, no, don't leave me. Can't do this without you. Just . . . distract me or somethin'."

"Distract you?" Olivia nibbled her bottom lip, dubious. "You want me to sing?"

"Lord, no. This kid'll never come outta me if she hears that. Just tell me something. Tell me a good cop story I haven't heard before, you've gotta have lots of those."

"Because of my significantly advanced years, is that what you're saying?" Olivia smirked, but brought Amanda's hand to her lips and pressed a firm kiss on the back. She did have a huge store of Tall Tales of the NYPD to choose from, so why this one should be the first she lit upon, she couldn't say. She went with it, anyway:

"Have I ever told you about the time I went undercover as a prostitute? With the sex hair and fuck-me boots, the mini dress and push-up bra? I thought Cragen was gonna blow a gasket . . . "

When the nurse and anesthesiologist arrived ten minutes later, Olivia was slow dancing next to the bed with Amanda, relying on gravity to help the baby descend into the birth canal naturally, and regaling the detective with a tale of inadvertently inhaled toxic mushrooms and accusations that a suspect had stabbed Captain Cragen with a pickle. Amanda alternated between laughter and tears at the punchline, her head tucked under Olivia's chin, and her exact words at first sighting the woman with the ultrasound device and a very large needle were, "Thank fuck."

Olivia listened patiently as the nurse explained that it was hospital policy for family members to leave the room while epidurals were administered. _Yeah, to cover your asses in case you screw it up_ , she added to herself. Out loud she stated simply, and in no uncertain terms, "I'm staying."

She got no arguments, although her confidence wavered somewhat when she caught a better glimpse of the needle—approximately the size of the one on top the Chrysler Building—being used to insert the catheter alongside her wife's spinal cord. She felt a little lightheaded watching the anesthesiologist maneuver it into Amanda's small, arched back, using only the guidelines supplied by a device that looked like an iPad, instinct, and her fingertips.

Luckily Amanda was bent forward, arms looped behind Olivia's neck, head cushioned at her breast, and didn't see the fleeting look of horror that crossed Olivia's face. Nurse Judy, however, had a front row view and circled around the bed to stand at Olivia's side, presumably to catch her if she passed out. The woman didn't know her very well. She wasn't going anywhere. Not while Amanda relied on her to stay steady and strong.

"You're doing so good, love," she murmured, averting her eyes from the catheter's progress and focusing on the peach tattoo farther down her wife's back. That had been a good day. Amanda's forty-first birthday, and the day she had taken Olivia completely by surprise, offering her bites of cupcake—and another child.

It was one of the happiest days of Olivia's life, to be honest. And now she could add today to the list. Except for that big damn needle.

"Almost done," said the anesthesiologist, retracting the needle and securing the slender tubing to Amanda with enough medical tape to wrap about ten Christmas gifts.

Olivia stroked Amanda's sides and continued the warm affirmations, now infused with a hint of pride. For someone as antsy and impatient as the detective tended to be—even when she wasn't in active labor—she had held perfectly still through the entire procedure and didn't complain a bit as the other two women fitted her into the fetal monitoring belt and started an IV line.

For Olivia, who had last seen her wife hooked up to that many wires and machines after Amanda had gotten shot a little over a year ago, it brought back some terrible memories. She sent up a silent prayer that this time she would be left with only the good kind, and forced the bad aside, reclaiming Amanda's hand and wrapping an arm around her shoulders to help guide her back against the bed.

"Good girl," she said softly, kissing the side of Amanda's head, not caring in the least that her hair was plastered down with sweat. Somehow it tasted sweeter than after one of the detective's workout runs, when Olivia would squirm and squawk—mostly for show—if Amanda got frisky before showering. Then again, maybe Olivia was just getting a vicarious hit from that epidural. "How's it feel, baby? You doing okay?"

"Mm-hmm. I don't feel any—" Amanda paused in the middle of smacking her lips thickly, as if she had discovered some leftover peanut butter hidden in a back molar, and cocked her head, an odd contemplative expression on her face. She looked like she was about to sneeze. "Whew. Head rush. Damn, Doc, you gave me the good stuff."

The anesthesiologist chuckled and responded to Olivia's questioning gaze with a nod of assent—yes, this was normal. Everything was still okay. "How about we get that adjusted for you? Can't have you in here floating on the ceiling. Doctor Sharma will have to catch the baby in a net."

Once the dosage had been worked out and Amanda was not floating on the ceiling, but very much confined to the bed, numb from the waist down, and more Zen than Olivia had ever seen her, they were left alone again. The menstrual-like cramps in Olivia's lower back and abdomen had mysteriously subsided as well, a lovely, warm sense of calm stealing over her, now that Amanda's pain had been alleviated.

For a while, they merely exchanged adoring gazes, Olivia seated on the edge of the bed, piecing coarse strands of hair from Amanda's forehead and preening her like a fastidious mother-bird. The urge to touch was irresistible, and fortunately, Amanda appeared to revel in it, a dreamy smile on her lips, her eyes heavy-lidded and fluttery whenever Olivia grazed her cheek.

"Sleepy, my love?" Olivia asked, her voice as gentle as the strokes she applied to her wife's baby-soft skin with the backs of her fingers.

"A little." Amanda hummed her approval, allowing her eyes to drift fully closed. She almost did seem to have fallen asleep, until she tugged on Olivia's sleeve—only then did Olivia realize she'd never changed out of her pajama top before leaving the apartment—urging her forward. "Don't wanna sleep, though. Can you just hold me for a bit? Need your arms around me."

If Olivia's heart hadn't already been filled to bursting, it was now.

"Of course, sweetheart. Can you scootch that cute little tushy, or do you need me to—" Olivia didn't so much help her wife slide over in the bed as find herself hauled onto it and wedged into the narrow space between Amanda's hip and the bed rail. Good thing she hadn't gained any sympathy weight in the past nine months.

She made do with the awkward position, happy as long as Amanda was comfortable, and gathered the detective into a snug embrace, blonde head tucked securely under her chin. "This okay?" she asked, rubbing Amanda's arm beneath the sleeve of her hospital gown, warming the skin it exposed with her palm.

"Mm."

The detective was asleep within seconds, leaving Olivia's follow-up questions ("Are you chilly, love?" And then, barely above a whisper, "'Manda baby?) unanswered. Not surprising, really. It was four in the morning and neither of them had slept at all the night before—not after their daughter decided to liven up an otherwise uneventful Wednesday evening by arriving early. Olivia was feeling a little drowsy herself, the tranquil lighting in the room, dimmed to an unobtrusive setting for baby's entry into a loud, bright world, lulling her almost as much as Amanda's warm body and steady breathing.

"How about you let your mamas rest a little before you break out of there," Olivia said, resting her hand on top of the baby bump and tucking the covers around it and Amanda, as best she could. Giving it a second thought, she lifted the blanket and addressed her daughter again: "Don't go anywhere."

**. . .**


	14. Hush Little Baby

**. . .**

_Giving it a second thought, she lifted the blanket and addressed her daughter again: "Don't go anywhere."_

Samantha obeyed, and it wasn't until a nurse shuffled in at 7 AM to check the fetal monitor and replenish Amanda's ice chip supply that Olivia awakened to a pair of blue eyes gazing up from her shoulder. "Mornin', beautiful," Amanda said with a hint of irony, though her voice was still clogged by sleep, too. "Thought you decided to make me deliver this watermelon baby on my own."

"Better not. I'll make you put her back in and start over if you do." Olivia smiled drowsily, about to peck her wife on the tip of the nose. She got halfway there, then drew back abruptly, wide awake. "Wait, is it time?"

Amanda squinted one eye and twitched her hips beneath the blanket, squirming as if she were trying to free a wedgie. "Yeah, she's crownin' as we speak. You better get down there and get ready for my hike."

"Smartass," Olivia said, with a sniff of laughter and an obligatory roll of the eyes. This time the kiss made it all the way to Amanda's lips—even those were fuller and poutier with the pregnancy weight, a feature Olivia would sorely miss very soon—then she extracted herself from the sliver of mattress where she'd dozed, suppressing the urge to groan like a grandmother, instead of the new mother she was about to be. She did, however, flex both arms and stretch them wide, yawning, and rolling her neck till it cracked.

Oh yeah, she was ready to be mommy to a newborn and a toddler. And a first- and third-grader.

Bring it.

She ate her sarcastic and inwardly directed words a few moments later, when the nurse checked Amanda's cervix and announced the detective was at seven centimeters. The transition stage, said to be the most difficult part of labor. Luckily it was also the shortest, and with the epidural deadening the pain, it shouldn't be nearly as horrendous as some of the birth videos Olivia had watched on YouTube in preparation. Those would scare even the toughest, most seasoned captain on the force.

"Well, darlin'," Amanda said, after the nurse flitted off to inform the doctor his services would be required in the next hour or so, "looks like we made it to the homestretch. Sure you still wanna do this?"

Olivia glanced up from the ice chips she was spooning into Amanda's mouth from a crinkly plastic cup. She hitched an eyebrow at her wife, who accepted the mouthful and winked at her over the spoon. "I wasn't aware there was another option," she said in a dry tone. At the last moment, she withdrew the next spoonful, leaving Amanda straining like a baby bird awaiting its beak to be filled. But only for a second. "I'm kind of invested at this point, to be perfectly honest."

"Good. I had a feelin'." Amanda spoke around a cheekful of slush and energetic munching, her eyes bright, impish. She was as excited to meet their new baby as Olivia was, no doubt about it. "But if you were planning on runnin' off with Daphne to some tropical island while I'm stuck at home being a human milk dispenser to a squalling, bald gargoyle, now's your chance. Daph'll be thrilled."

"Did you just call our child a gargoyle?" Olivia asked, a bemused quirk to her lips and probably the eyebrows too.

"You saw Jesse the first week. She looked like that thing from the freak show episode of _X-Files_ you made me watch." Amanda's eyes were comically wide and sincere as she scrunched her shoulders and clawed her hands like a hideous, shrunken creature. "We turn out pretty, but Rollins women ain't exactly known for our attractive newborns."

"Amanda." Olivia gave a scoffing little laugh and shook her head. The part about Jesse was an exaggeration—mostly. She had been awfully scrawny and covered in red splotches those first few days, and Amanda's own newborn photo _did_ sort of resemble a featherless baby bird, but neither of their ugly duckling phases had lasted long. A week or two at most, and then Olivia's beautiful swans emerged. "I don't care if she looks like Gollum, I'm not going anywhere. Besides that, Daphne's three feet tall. We would look ridiculous trying to walk hand-in-hand on the beach."

Amanda's laugh cut short and she grimaced at the baby bump, hands domed to both sides. "Mm," she hummed, contemplatively.

"What? What's wrong?" Olivia was already reaching for the call button to summon a nurse, but Amanda put out a hand and stopped her.

"I'm okay. Just some pressure. Think the contractions are getting stronger. I'd probably be cussin' you out right now, if not for the drugs." The detective winked and pulled Olivia's hand over to rest on her belly. She held it there, her palm against the back, their fingers interlocked. It would probably be the last time they could do that, at least while their daughter was still on the inside. "You know what a filthy mouth I got on me."

"Very true," Olivia said, and leaned in once more to kiss the filthy mouth in question.

There was a sly expression on Amanda's face when they parted, and Olivia knew she was in for it now, whatever that look was about.

"You know . . . I have heard there are certain ways to help labor along," Amanda purred.

"Oh? What might those be, pray tell?"

"Orgasms." Amanda gave a matter-of-fact nod. "Big fat orgasms. It opens things up and kinda . . . greases the wheels. Then the baby can sorta just—" She made a sliding gesture and whistled through her teeth, indicating a luge-like effect. "Glide on out."

It was quite the mental image, and Olivia had to stifle a chuckle at the thought of their baby shooting out of Amanda's vagina on a sled, dressed in a rubberized race suit. "Well, my love, even if you weren't too numb down there to feel it, I am not giving you a handjob in front of the doctor and nurses, our child, and God probably."

"Who said anything 'bout a handjob?" Amanda tugged on Olivia's elbow. "We're sixty-ninin', baby, hop on up here."

They were still giggling fifteen minutes later, when the nurse arrived for the checkups she performed at twenty-minute intervals, until Amanda reached nine centimeters and the doctor was officially called on. He appeared within moments, like a genie summoned out of thin air, and within a few moments more, Amanda was dilated to ten and it was time to push.

Olivia instantly forgot every single breathing technique she had learned—from therapy, from yoga, from the app she had on her phone, and from the Lamaze classes. Fortunately, the brain glitch passed almost at once, and she kept herself and Amanda from hyperventilating or flagging with a guided breathing technique to relieve some of the strain of pushing.

"Haven't been . . . this winded since hi-high school track," Amanda puffed, her face a brilliant shade of pink that turned her hair platinum. She grunted with effort, occasionally flopping back against the pillow to pant and loll her head side to side. "Is sh-she out yet?" asked the detective, a whiny undertone to her voice. Her patience and stamina were rapidly waning with each of the doctor's prompts to _push_.

"Not yet, baby." Olivia squeezed her wife's hand, dutifully rubbing between the blonde's shoulder blades every time they arched forward from the raised bed. Standing at Amanda's side, she had a clear view of the progress below if she peered over Amanda's thigh. It was a mesmerizing sight—and one that made Olivia's stomach flip. Nearly fifteen years had passed since she assisted in the emergency delivery of Eli Stabler, and even that hadn't been this graphic. "You're so close, though. And you're doing amazing. My brave, sweet girl. I'm so proud of you, Amanda Jo."

It was just enough incentive to keep Amanda going, despite her obvious exhaustion, and she threw herself into the next round of pushes with so much resolve, she resembled a teakettle about to give forth a piercing whistle and a long plume of steam. "Lordy," she groaned weakly, beads of sweat glimmering on her brow. "Stings. It s'posed to feel like that?"

Olivia looked anxiously to the doctor. She knew about the "ring of fire" delivering mothers were said to feel when the labia and perineum stretched to capacity around the baby's head. That was what all the perineal massages had been for—to prepare the area for stretching and to minimize tearing, if possible. But the fact that Amanda could feel it, even with the epidural, was vaguely alarming.

"Yes, that's not usual," Dr. Sharma replied, and though he didn't emerge from his hunkered position between Amanda's akimbo knees, a smile was detectable in his voice. "Especially when a baby is crowning like yours is. Take a look, Captain."

Leaning in, Olivia glanced at the skin the doctor was probing aside with his fingers, carefully separating it around a widening dark spot. She did a double-take when she realized the dark spot was hair, and she'd been staring at the top of her baby's head the whole time. "Oh my God," she gasped, unable to contain the wonderment (and a little of the horror at seeing her wife quite literally split open) at what lay before her. "Oh my God, Amanda, there's— she's got hair! She's not a bald gargoyle."

One of the nurses passed Olivia a handheld mirror to slant towards Amanda, providing her with a glimpse of the head, before the final few exertions pushed it out. "Good Lord," Amanda said, breathless, her gaze swimming in and out of focus a bit drunkenly, "it's thick. 'N so dark. Like yours."

 _So different, so dark_. The thought flashed through Olivia's mind and was expelled just as quickly. Those memories would never be associated with this child. This child was pure love, pure light. And more wanted than any baby had ever been.

"Oh gahdamn, I gotta push," Amanda grunted. She grasped her shin in one hand and clutched Olivia's hand in the other, roping their arms together and preparing to bear down.

"Just a small one this time," the doctor instructed, his fingers tented around the top of the baby's head. "Let's ease her on out."

Amanda barked a single, harsh laugh: _Ha!_ "Let's shove a bowlin' ball out your keister and see if you can ease through it, bucko."

"Sweetheart . . . " Olivia splayed her palm on Amanda's forehead like a faith healer about to cast out demons. There was certainly a demonic glint in those pretty blue eyes when the blonde snarled _bucko_. Olivia had never heard her wife use that term in their entire eleven-year acquaintanceship.

But the doctor gave a good-natured chuckle and nodded in agreement. "That would be a real pain in the ass. And you're not the first to suggest I try it, believe me. But you're doing great, and I know you can handle this last part like a pro. Small push, Mrs. Benson."

"It's— ugh, never mind." Amanda heaved a sigh and sat forward as if she were wobbling through the final reps of an intense sit-up routine.

Olivia's eyes boggled at the result, her daughter's head appearing suddenly and in all its deep brunette glory. She was already taken with the child's beauty, and a face wasn't even visible yet. "Oh. Oh, we have a head," she said, unaware of what was coming out of her mouth in her overexcited state. Right then, _bucko_ made perfect sense.

"She better have a head," Amanda huffed, and flumped back onto her pillow. "I ain't doing all this work for no headless baby."

Once the doctor had suctioned the newborn's nostrils and mouth with a nasal aspirator and checked that the umbilical cord was not around her neck, he glanced up at Olivia. "Ready to play catch, Captain?"

That had been an eleventh-hour surprise, introduced by Amanda when Dr. Sharma entered the room—she wanted Olivia to catch the baby. "You should be the first to hold her," Amanda had said, overriding Olivia's initial hesitation. "She'll be safer in your hands than anybody else's, m'darlin'."

And now, love shining through the weariness in her hazy blue eyes, Amanda jutted her chin in that direction and released Olivia's hand. "Go on and get her, you big silly. I don't wanna give birth to a sixteen-year-old."

The first glimpse of Samantha's face, during external rotation of the head, took Olivia's breath away, and it didn't return to her until the baby's shoulders—and all at once, the rest of the tiny, squishy body—gave forth into her waiting hands with a sweet weightlessness, as of something feathered and fluffed. Samantha's first cries like the high, thin bleating of a lamb, mingled with Olivia's tearful laughter as she scooped the newborn up for a quick appraisal.

Ten fingers, ten toes, two big brown eyes, and yep—definitely a girl!

"Oh my God, Amanda, she's so beautiful," Olivia said, vacillating between more giddy laughter and tears of joy as she instinctively brought the baby to her chest. She didn't care about the goop, just that oh-so-important skin-on-skin contact, which Samantha found immediately at Olivia's neck and the V of her collar.

The newborn hushed at once, and that was when Olivia wept in earnest, because then she knew for certain: this truly was her baby, and she needn't do anything to win the child's love. She already had it. She had all the love in the world.

"Aw, darlin', don't cry," Amanda said, without an ounce of conviction. There were tears streaming freely down her cheeks, and she opened her arms to Olivia, pulling her into a hug with their daughter—squawking again at the interruption—nestled between them.

They wept together, the three of them, until Olivia eased back and gently shifted the baby onto Amanda's chest, to snuggle against the skin exposed by her draped hospital gown. Olivia intercepted the towel a nurse brought forth ("No, no," she scolded lightly, captain's instincts kicking in before she could stop herself) and used it to dab some of the blood from her daughter's downy little body. She avoided wiping away the cream-cheese-like substance that coated Samantha's skin—she'd read extensively about the benefits of vernix for a newborn, and it was in the birth plan, laid out weeks earlier with the doctor, that Samantha wouldn't receive her first bath until twenty-four hours after birth. Olivia would have to go over that plan with the nurses again, it seemed.

But right now.

"Look at her teeny tiny little bum," she said, practically squealing with delight as she cupped her hand to the baby's bottom. It was scrunched out like an inching caterpillar and fit perfectly into Olivia's palm. She massaged the vernix gently into Samantha's delicate skin, glad for the excuse to caress every inch of super-soft, flawless baby-flesh. "It's just like yours."

"Oh my Lord, this face." Amanda giggled at Samantha's upturned face, which was equally as scrunched as her backside, and mirrored Olivia's movements, rubbing the protein-rich coating into the newborn's crinkled chin, cheeks, and forehead with her fingertips. "Darlin', she looks exactly like you. And her hair. She's got more than me."

"Her feet, though. They're so . . . tiny! These toes. Why do I want to nibble them?"

"Seriously, she has your little cat nose. Look. Her eyes are shaped like yours too, I think. Well, if she would leave them open long enough for me to . . . "

"She's got that newborn hair—oh, what's it called? Lanugo. Feel her back. Our little werewolf baby."

"Did you see her birthmark? It looks like lipstick prints. You up in there kissin' on her while I was asleep, or somethin'?"

"Is that a dimple I see? Oh God, I'm done for."

They marveled over and massaged their little girl for several moments more, warming and soothing her naturally, until the doctor asked if Olivia was ready to cut the umbilical cord. That had been a stipulation of the birth plan, too—the cord wouldn't be clamped or cut for the first few minutes postpartum, allowing Samantha to receive more of the placental blood that aided in her healthy development.

"Go ahead, we're not going anywhere," Amanda urged, smiling tiredly as Olivia fussed over the blanket she'd tucked around her wife and daughter. The detective had seen right through the stall tactic, and she sent Olivia off with a kiss on the lips. The next, she deposited on baby Sammie's forehead.

"Ugh, I'm jealous," said Olivia, who had just spent at least a full minute kissing Samantha's hands and feet. She gazed longingly after Amanda and the baby, as if they were separated from her by miles, when, in reality, she was just stepping around to the other side of the bed where the cord could be accessed without disturbing mother and child.

In theory, anyway. The moment Olivia left their side, Samantha gave a mighty yawp of displeasure, surprisingly vociferous for one so small. Oh boy, she had inherited her mama's lungs, no doubt about it.

"Uh-oh, she misses you, Mommy," Amanda said, grinning overtop the newborn's head, where she'd laid her cheek. Actually, it was probably the nurses shifting blankets and putting a cold stethoscope to Sammie's frail chest that caused the ruckus, but Olivia beamed nonetheless—her baby _wanted_ her, _needed_ her—and flushed with pride at Amanda's knowing wink.

Even with surgical scissors, cutting the cord was like cutting through an especially tough manicotti noodle, or an especially spongy television cable. Olivia pulled a face, both fascinated and repulsed by the sensation, and earned a snicker from Amanda; her feral Little Pretty, who thought a trip to the morgue was a fun break from the daily grind of police work.

"What, you don't think I make cute placentas?" Amanda teased, once the snipped end of the cord had been cleaned and Olivia, perhaps a bit paler than before, was back at her side.

"No. Not even a little bit." Olivia cupped the back of her wife's head and brought it in for a kiss on the forehead. She leaned down and did the same to their sweet, snoozing baby girl. "But you sure do make beautiful babies, I'll give you that."

"She is, isn't she? Beautiful." Amanda rested her head against Olivia's breast, the two mommies gazing down at the infant contentedly. "I mean, I know I'm biased here, but this is one pretty baby."

"She's perfect."

Before they could go into raptures over the soft, pink bundle in Amanda's arms again, a smiling nurse stepped forward with an electronic tablet she held like a hymnal. "Just a few quick questions for the new moms," she prefaced sunnily, though her tone was hushed to nursery level. "So we can get started on the birth certificate for what I agree is a _very_ pretty baby."

"Right? Don't you think she looks like her?" Amanda asked, pointing emphatically at Olivia. "Tell 'er."

"I definitely see the resemblance," said the nurse, and though she snuck a small wink at Olivia, she sounded sincere.

Personally, Olivia thought Samantha far lovelier than any of her own color-distorted baby pictures, but then again, she didn't have many to compare with. Before kindergarten and yearly school photos added to the collection, there were only a handful of snapshots of Olivia under age five—and those were mostly birthdays. She made sure to take pictures of her own children as often as possible. So often, in fact, Jesse groaned every time Olivia pulled out her cell phone and started clicking away. _Mom-meee_.

"All right, we've got date and time of birth," the nurse was saying, scrolling down the screen with her fingertip and reading aloud to herself: "February 3rd, 2022, at 8:06 AM . . . "

"It's February 3rd?" Olivia asked abruptly, before she could censor her reaction. With all the excitement and nerves of welcoming her daughter into the world—not to mention a severely disrupted sleep schedule—she hadn't registered the significance of the date, until hearing it out loud.

Samantha had been born on Serena's birthday.

"Yep, all day." The nurse didn't seem to notice Olivia's surprise, her eyes never leaving the tablet.

But just as Olivia was about to give in to overthinking and fretting about what it might _mean_ (Was it an omen? And if so, was it a good or a bad one? A message from Serena? Her blessing . . . or curse?), Amanda caught her by the hand and placed it palm-down on their sleeping child, smoothing out the back. Ever so gently leading her away from the edge.

"Guess she inherited my subtlety, huh?" Amanda murmured, as if she knew: the importance of the date, every thought in Olivia's head, every solution to every possible doubt Olivia could possess. She knew, because it was right there in her arms, the sum of Olivia's life and the truth that set her free.

 _Grace my fears relieved_ , Olivia thought, still unable to place the melody that had filtered up from her subconscious time and again the past few months. No matter. She had all the grace she needed right here.

And when the nurse inquired if moms had decided on a name for Baby Girl Rollins-Benson yet, Olivia felt nothing but love, acceptance, and absolute certainty as Amanda gazed up at her and said, "Think we're goin' with Samantha Grace. Right, darlin'?"

"Yeah, love. That sounds perfect to me."

Samantha Grace Rollins-Benson, seven pounds and twenty inches of perfection, born on her grandmother's birthday and four days before her mommy turned fifty-four ("I'm never topping this birthday present, am I?" Amanda asked, awaking the following Monday to find Olivia and Sammie snuggling in bed), slept peacefully in her mothers' arms for a solid hour after delivery.

 _Thank you_ , Olivia silently prayed the entire time, to God, Amanda, Serena, little Sammie, or anyone else listening—she really didn't care who.

Just _thank you_.

**. . .**

**THE END**


End file.
